


The next hundred years or so

by pleasebekidding



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Damon and Alaric and 2 original female characters in chapter 3 only, Damon/Alaric/Elijah in chapter 12 only, M/M, Multi, Slash, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Vamp!Ric, Vampire Turning, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 114,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have turned Alaric a couple of times in fic and thought it was time I actually explored what vampire life would be like for him and Damon. This will literally span a hundred years or so, eventually, and I will just add a chapter for each year I write (though I swear not to go all sci-fi on you, and can promise there will not be one hundred chapters).</p><p>
  <strong>Subscribe to hear about updates!</strong>
</p><p>Essentially a series of one-shots which will eventually reveal multiple character arcs and everything from smut to crack to angst and back again.</p><p>Goes AU from roughly halfway through S3.</p><p>Enjoy, and if there is something you'd like to see explored, one of these years, let me know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2012 - a period of adjustment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They tell no one where they are going: they just go. When they get back, Alaric is a little cooler to the touch.  
> Includes telling council members who must be told, taking Elena to college, and meeting Alaric's parents.

Damon and Alaric disappear for a long weekend as soon as school lets out for the summer and Elena’s graduating class has had their ceremony. Alaric has resigned from his job at the high school, though this is not yet common knowledge, and has relinquished his loft; half of his stuff is packed into boxes in a storage unit and the rest is at the boarding house where he has, for all intents and purposes, been living for the last few months.

They tell no one where they are going; they just go. It shouldn’t be interesting enough to prompt speculation but it does, because Mystic Falls is boring, when no one is trying to kill them.

“What do you care? Damon probably compelled them a penthouse hotel room. They’re fucking each other’s brains out as we speak.” Caroline gives a lascivious grin, looks at everyone from beneath perfectly black curved eyelashes.

“Gross, Care,” says Tyler, though his pulse quickens. He’s fooling no one.

“I think it’s hot,” she says. No need to make things harder on Tyler than they already are. Across the dining hall at the Grill Jeremy busses tables and Tyler watches because he has no other option.

“Weird for them to leave without saying _anything_ ,” Bonnie muses. “Last time they went off for a dirty weekend Damon said he was going to tweet about it. All weekend.” She shifts in her seat. “He didn’t, though.”

Elena says nothing. She knows. At least she suspects. They never left the boarding house.

When they do reappear, on Sunday evening, Alaric knocks on the door of the Gilbert house, which he hasn’t done in years; and Elena opens it wide. He is a little paler, and she imagines his touch must be a little cooler. He moves with a fraction more grace, grins a little easier. Elena speaks before Alaric gets a chance to.

“I’m drinking vervain,” she says, but she’s smiling. “Until you have the hang of this.” She has always been more observant than people give her credit for. “Come in,” she adds, and when he crosses carefully over the threshold she wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him tight.

“Thank you,” he says, and lands a kiss on the top of her head.

Damon watches from the door with an expression that makes Elena fear for canaries everywhere.

They drink coffee and speak in soft voices. “I’ll never know, now if I could have done this for Stefan,” Elena says, stirring the artificial creamer she favours, adding too much milk.

“He’ll be back,” Damon says. “And when he is – we’ll help him. Whatever it takes.”

 

**

 

There’s stuff to do. No one is suggesting they go and announce to the council that there is another vampire in their midst but Liz most be told, of course, and maybe Carol. Liz of course being a friend and a fellow vampire hunter. Carol being one prone to conspiracy theory and also poisoning suspected hidden vampires.

Liz first, though, as she is at least somewhat sympathetic to their situation and also inexplicably fond of them both.

“Ready?”

Damon has a look in his eye. He _is_ ready. He’s too ready, looking forward to this. Alaric grins, but it’s a rueful grin; not looking forward to the look on Liz Forbes’ face. Disappointment, perhaps. Anger, possibly. She might decide he needs staking.

Good luck. She’d have to go through Damon first.

“Ready as I’m gonna be.”

Damon knocks and it’s Caroline who opens the door, with a bright smile. She is about to speak, but she falters, and bites her lip.

“Crap,” she says. “I can’t invite you in. Dead, you know.”

Alaric flinches. “Don’t say that,” he insists; he says this to Damon, too, sometimes. “Your heart beats. You _do_ things. You think, Caroline.” He doesn’t give Damon time to disagree. “Sometimes, anyway. You’re not _dead_.”

Caroline shrugs. Not big on introspection. “Same rules apply. I’ll get mom.”

Liz looks uncharacteristically relaxed in an oversized red shirt instead of her uniform, and prettier than she thinks she is with her eyes big and walnut-coloured and her blonde hair untidy. “What are you doing out there?” she asks, with a strange twist to her lip, a cautious smile.

No easy way to say it.

“Waiting for an invitation,” Alaric says.

There is a flash across Liz’s face. Grief, perhaps. They’ve had a complicated relationship, she and Alaric, but they _are_ friends, they know too many of each other’s secrets, too many of everyone else’s, as well. “No, Ric,” she says, and Alaric flinches and nods. Takes a step away from the door.

“You know where to find me, if you need me,” he says, as he turns.

“That’s not what I meant.” Liz crosses her arms, shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Are you… okay? Under control?”

Alaric nods, holding her gaze. Liz casts her eyes down and away. Alaric takes a step back, pulling gently at Damon’s sleeve. Nodding away from the house. They both know what he’s saying, but Damon doesn’t want to back down.

“Council loses Ric, it loses us both,” he says. Trademark smirk tucked away for later use, and storm clouds collecting above his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Liz. If it wasn’t for me and Ric everyone on the council would be long dead by now. How many monsters have _you_ killed?”

Caroline takes a step towards Liz, catches her elbow in her hand. “Mom,” she says, a quiet reminder that prejudice can be overcome. “You did it for me.”

Liz nods. “Come in, Ric,” she says, and steps back.

Alaric falters, but follows Damon inside. Damon is busy trying to make things better, or worse, or something. “If it’ll make it less weird, we could always recreate the absinthe night. Found a case of sloe gin in the cellar. No hallucinations, but I guarantee you’ll be so drunk you won’t care who’s a vampire.”

“Something I don’t need or want to hear about,” Caroline says. “Anyway, if you’re plotting against vampires, I should probably be elsewhere.” She’s a rainbow flying out the door, off to meet friends. Their last summer together before they all head off to separate colleges.

Liz boils a jug for coffee, but Damon steers her to a chair at the dining table and opens one of the bottles of wine he brought, instead. “I mean, really. Do you need the caffeine?”

She shrugs, as Damon finds three glasses that are roughly the same size and shape.

They are silent there at the dining table for some time.

“What happened?” Liz asks, at last.

“I chose this.” Alaric says, smiling in a way he hopes makes him look not like a predator, but like a man who really did that, really made a choice. “I chose, Liz. And I’m not leaving. Mystic Falls needs the council and I’m sorry, but the council needs some strong arms on it.”

“Is that why?”

“Maybe reason number four, on a short list.” He shrugs. “But it’s a factor.”

Liz shakes her head again. “I just… why else? Why would you, of all people?”

(The night of Liz’s homemade absinthe, that was the night Alaric told her about Isobel, leaving him to become a vampire; Damon admitted his own part in it, and Liz had looked from face to face with incredulity in her eyes. But because the wormwood had captured their imaginations, lithe green fingers in their brains, it had been hilarious, instead of tragic. Tears had poured down their faces and Alaric had declared them all fucked up.

Liz had laughed so hard she made a snot bubble out of her nose and said that if Bill and Steve had a better origin story she might have wished them well, instead of researching voodoo for a year.)

Halfway through the second bottle of wine things get more relaxed and Liz seems to resign herself to yet another new reality. “No free passes, Ric,” she says. “You kill anyone, you’re done. I’ll stake you myself.”

“I kill anyone, Liz,” he agrees, “and I’ll hold still while you do it.”

 

**

 

The following night is the first Council meeting since Alaric’s change. Carol greets them at the door like the Southern Belle she was raised to be and invites them in, courteously, as she does every time and without a second’s hesitation. She’s distracted, but Carol is always distracted, and doesn’t notice Alaric moves a little differently now.

After the meeting, at which it is declared that Mystic Falls is quiet, still, as it has been for months, she rings a little bell and a young man and two young women arrive with plates of canapés and a selection of aperitifs. Alaric sniffs suspiciously at the drinks and mutters a complaint that aperitifs always taste like aniseed.

“You like liquorice.”

“I _do_ like liquorice. I just don’t like it in my drinks.” Alaric skims for something malt based and, finding nothing, settles for brandy.

The council members drift way one by one until Damon, Alaric, and Liz are all who are left.

Carol kicks off her heels, unbuttons the top button of her blouse, and pours herself a large glass of cognac from the second–to-top shelf. “Help yourselves,” she says. “I sent the help home.”

She’s more fun like this than she usually is. Having determined some months back that the likelihood she’ll ever sleep with either Damon or Alaric are slim-to-none she has been quite cheerfully sloppy in their presence, and generally a good source of entertainment. The trailer trash might be buried beneath three layers of Chanel and a pair of silk stockings but the woman knows how – and when – to let her hair down.

Damon pours bourbon for himself and Alaric and a vodka tonic for Liz. Liz and Carol bond briefly over the trouble with supernatural teenagers, their worries about letting them leave Mystic Falls for college.

“Rhode Island,” Carol says. “It seems a long way. But he has talent and he got in. If his father was alive…” Carol sighs, and doesn’t say what they all don’t say: Tyler is supposed to run the mill, but he won’t, not ever.

“Los Angeles,” Liz adds. “Further than Rhode Island. UCLA. Caroline was born for it. Think there are a lot of vampires in California?”

Damon swirls the bourbon in his glass. “Not since Buffy cleared it out,” he says, and smirks at the blank looks. They are all silent a long moment.

“Some days I think I miss vampires,” Carol admits, pouring another brandy.

“In that case, I have good news,” Liz says.

Carol narrows her eyes.

“Meet vampire Alaric,” Damon says, and Alaric gives a dry wave. Carol sits up straighter a moment. Her eyes hold Alaric’s concerned, wary, though not alarmed, which is nice, and then drift to meet Liz’s. Liz shrugs.

“What’s one more?” she says, and then “Caroline and Tyler are managing to not kill anyone. As far as I know.”

Carol shakes her head and then sinks back in her chair.

“Should have seen that coming,” she admits. “Seems it’s all the rage.”

It’s the last they say about it, for now.

 

**

 

Ten weeks later Damon and Alaric drive Elena halfway across the country to the tiny liberal arts college she has chosen.

(She and Alaric had pored over catalogues and consulted Google Earth for weeks before Elena made her final decision. In the end, it had been easy. “Ever heard of Henton College?” she asked a few people. No one had.

Perfect.)

Damon and Alaric help Elena move into her dorm, help her conceal weapons where no roommate is likely to stumble upon them. They explore the whole campus identifying potential hidey holes and weak spots in the school’s security. They compel the security staff to pay particular attention to Elena’s building.

Outside the fitness centre Alaric reads the schedule. “Women’s wrestling, women’s boxing. You should sign up.” Elena looks incredulous but Alaric is firm; “You’ll keep your training up?”

“You know I will.” Elena rubs at her temples, shakes her head. “My dads are Marines,” she groans. “Vampire Marines. Would you just go home? No one will ever want to be friends with me. You two are scary.”

“Actually, good idea,” Damon muses. “Permanent bodyguards. What do you say, Ric? Plus, women’s wrestling. Works for me.”

Alaric contemplates for a long moment. “Think we should leave her to it. This is supposed to be Elena’s shot at a normal life.”

“Thank you,” she says, and she hugs them both. “Now, please, _go away_.”

In one of the diners that serves the college population Damon and Alaric eat rare steaks for dinner and snack on a very attractive young couple for dessert (Damon takes the girl – says the boy is too hairy even for him). They send the couple away hale and whole, and looking more than a little horny, if a touch pale.

They find a hotel and Alaric compels them a suite. Damon gives Alaric a blow job in the spa and fucks him hard over the back of the lounge. Alaric returns the favour on a bed which is smaller than they’re used to, but big enough. He bites hard into Damon’s shoulder as he comes, and Damon swears a blue streak because life is too perfect. They tear at each other until the sun comes up, doze a while, and drive the long way back to Mystic Falls.

 

*******

 

The best sort of lazy Sunday morning in bed and Alaric is quiet. Damon licks the back of Alaric’s knee and mouths lazily up the side of Alaric’s thigh, pausing every now and then to demand to know what Alaric is thinking about.

“It’s nearly my birthday,” he says at last.

Damon thinks for a moment and then kisses his way up the knots in Alaric’s spine, feels Alaric shift and resettle beneath him.

“You want to do something.” It’s not a question. “What did you have in mind?”

It’s a deliciously weird plan and Damon is all for it.

 

**

 

Alaric idles the car a few houses away from his parents’ home. Damon says nothing.

“I’m starting to think this is a really bad idea,” Alaric says. Damon says nothing.

“Maybe I should wait a few more weeks,” Alaric says. Damon says nothing.

“You know, they’ll be dead, soon,” Alaric says. “Maybe they’ll just die, and I won’t have to…”

Damon says nothing.

“Damon?”

“Yeah.”

“Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” He has a tone, he knows he has a tone, but what, precisely, that tone is, he doesn’t know.

Alaric switches off the ignition. “Talk me into this. Or out of it.” He flinches. “Tell me you won’t let me eat my parents.”

“I won’t let you eat your parents.” Damon leans back against the seat of the rental car. They’d picked one with every stupid additional creature comfort, right down to the heated seats. Totally unnecessary for a pair of monsters who simply don’t get cold, but it had amused Damon no end to think of it. “You didn’t eat the annoying woman at the check-in counter. Why would you eat your parents?”

Alaric gives a half smile, and then sighs.

“Talk me out of this.”

Damon shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’ve never been brought to meet parents. Can you believe that? Me. Such a catch. And yet.”

Alaric snorts, and it’s a snort that speaks volumes. He still has a lot to learn about Damon. Damon doesn’t mind. They have plenty of time. “Ever _wanted_ to meet parents?”

Damon thinks about it.

No, he hasn’t, but he’s never wanted to keep someone, before, either. This seems like such a normal thing to do that it is positively debauched. Meet parents. _Hi, parents! Or shall I call you Mr and Mrs Ric? Your undead son and I had sex at a rest stop between the airport and here. He seemed stressed, but he’s more relaxed now. You know how that goes. The secret is this spot below and behind his ear. You lick that just right, and…_ It’s a really terrible family comedy waiting to happen, or, depending on how it goes, John Carpenter’s new straight-to-video oeuvre. Fantastic.

Terrifying.

Wonderful. Meeting parents. You do this. You shake the dad’s hand and you tell the mom she doesn’t look a day over thirty herself. You tell them you brought a bottle of wine (carefully selected so you know it’s what they prefer to drink) and that you hope they like – _shudder_ – unwooded chardonnay.

This will be a little different. For one, Alaric’s parents are old. Alaric’s father is eighty, his mother not far behind. His mother has dementia and is unlikely to have a clue what’s going on. His father tires easily and they will be staying in a hotel, rather than cause any stress.

(Alaric told Damon once that his parents referred to him as a miraculous gift, but that privately, he thought of himself as more a horrible shock.)

Damon realises Alaric is actually waiting for an answer.

He shrugs. “No,” he admits. “But I want to meet yours.”

Alaric still doesn’t move.

“They’ll have to invite us in. It’s not my home, anymore,” Alaric says, and he sounds a little sad.

“C’mon, Ric,” Damon says, nudging Alaric’s shoulder, pushing him. “You think I wanna listen to you bitch for the next thousand years about leaving it too late?”

Every time he makes a joke like this Damon has the odd sense of his nerves rearranging themselves across his shoulders and forehead. The next thousand years. Optimistic, of course. The fact that vampires are hard to kill is effectively balanced by the fact that a lot of things tend to want to kill them.

Still. Could happen. A thousand years. More.

Weird.

Awesome. Damon snakes a hand across the gap between the seats. Runs his finger across the back of Alaric’s arm and finally teases the hair at the base of Alaric’s skull.

“Tell me it’s not because I’m sporting a Y-chromosome.”

Alaric laughs softly. “No. It’s not that. I’m… I’m a vampire, Damon.”

“Yes. You are. I was there when it happened.” Damon smirks.

Alaric stills again. “Do you think they’ll know something’s different?”

Damon considers. “Breathe,” he says.

“I’m doing the best I can, here…”

“No, I mean, try to remember to breathe. Not just when you’re speaking. We’re… very still. Or…” Damon considers. He’s a ball of barely constrained energy, most of the time. Alaric is the still one, contained. Languid.

Languid. Terrible word, that. Makes Damon think about sex. Sex. Sex.

Parents can wait. Hotel first, parents another day. Languid. Limbs.

Lazy. Luxurious.

Fuck. Focus. “It’s going to be fine, Ric. You’re as neurotic as Caroline.”

Alaric starts the car, chuckling as he does it. “No one’s as neurotic as Caroline,” he says, and they park in the driveway of the elder Saltzmans’ home.

By some miracle Alaric’s father is close by the front door when Alaric knocks and he opens it, with a smile, and he says, “Don’t just stand there, come in, come in. Both of you,” and Alaric breathes out. Across the threshold he puts his arms around his father and Damon feels a vicious stab of jealousy. Imagine being so easily accepted, he thinks.

Alaric’s father is almost as tall as Alaric, taller than Damon. His eyes look vital, intelligent. Very much alive, though Damon knows he is dying. If Alaric had continued, human, he’d look just exactly like this in forty-five years.

There is a smell of decay. A cancer, somewhere. Cancer has a smell. Even dogs can smell cancer.

When he pulls away from Alaric he holds a hand out to Damon. “Damon, is it? Very happy to meet you. Call me Ed. My son has a type, don’t you, son? Your mother’s asleep,” he adds unnecessarily. “We’ll sit out the back.”

His accent is pure Boston, far thicker than Alaric’s. Damon wonders why.

The day is warm, or warm enough, and the back yard is full of cats. The cats keep their distance. No surprise. Dogs can be remarkably trusting, but cats recognise a predator easily enough.

The nurse, Natasha, brings tea. Earl Grey. Damon approves. Of the tea, and the nurse. She’s spunky. Efficient. Legs to her armpits. Alaric catches him looking, and smiles.

“You seem a little different, son,” Ed says, cautious.

“Perhaps.” Alaric pours tea into what is no doubt the good china. “But like you say, things are always different.”

“Progress,” Ed says, and Damon notices Alaric only fills his cup to halfway. The shake in Ed’s hand would make it impossible for him to manage a full cup.

The nurse comes back, this time with an ashtray, and a pipe, and a tin of tobacco Damon instantly recognises as one he favoured during his years in London. He opens his mouth to speak, and the nurse shuts him up.

“Don’t you start,” she says. “Why quite smoking at eighty? Americans think they can live forever, if only they do what they magazines tell them.” She has quite a harsh South African accent, and that seems to complete the ensemble nicely. “Ridiculous.”

Damn snorts. “I was going to ask if Ed had a pipe I could borrow. But now I’m worried you might feed my testicles to one of the cats, so maybe I won’t.”

Mollified, Natasha puts a hand on her hip. “There are spares. Alaric?”

Alaric shakes his head. “I’m good.”

 _Yes, you are_. Damon smirks. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Damon follows Alaric’s directions but before he finds the bathroom he finds Alaric’s mother’s room. She is awake, just barely, and she looks worried. She still bears traces of the woman she was fifty, sixty years ago. A stunner, Damon suspects, and her hair is the colour of fine silver.

“Are you the doctor?” she calls. Damon takes a cautious step into the room.

“I’m a friend of Alaric’s.”

“Who is Alaric?”

Well, shit. Damon takes another step inside the room.

She seems to have forgotten he is there, for the moment, anyway. She has her finger caught in a loop of wool on the blanket, and that seems to be upsetting her. Damon crosses to the other side of the bed to help her unloop it. Touching her hand, and her finger, like that’s okay to do. Like that’s something nice and normal. Her skin feels like onion parchment. “Alaric,” he says. “Your son. Do you remember?”

Damon has next to no experience with old people or children. He might as well be trying to wrangle a tiger. Also, he thinks, he shouldn’t be here. At all.

Alaric’s mother – Dianne, Damon suddenly remembers – squints. “I used to know a little boy called Alaric, I think. Are you here to take a blood test? You’re always sticking me with needles…” She looks disappointed, and a little upset, though pleased to have her hand free of the blanket.

Damon freezes.

You can’t cure disease with vampire blood but you can slow it, and you can treat the symptoms, for a little while. He turns away and lets his fangs descend, cuts into his finger. Settles his features back to human. “No. Medicine,” he says. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

She does so, unquestioning, trusting. Damon acts before he can think better of it, puts a little blood on her tongue, and then slips out of the room. In the bathroom, he washes his hands and looks at himself in the mirror for a long moment.

That might have been a really dumb thing to do.

He returns to the porch to wait for the fallout, listens to Alaric and Ed talk about Dianne’s condition.

Natasha comes outside after a little while, frowning, arms crossed. “Well, perhaps she heard your voice, but she’s back,” she says. “Don’t get excited. It won’t last. Still come and speak to her, before she goes again.”

Ed and Alaric go inside and Damon follows behind. Hovers awkwardly in the doorway.

Dianne is lucid, if disoriented, and Alaric leans to hold her tight, while she can still manage; she seems shocked he’s there, but pleased. Alaric settles by her side, sitting on the very edge of the bed, his fingers tangled with his mother’s, and Damon feels another stab of jealousy. Far greater than the first. He lost his mother the day he gained Stefan and that loss was the greatest loss, until the loss of Katherine eclipsed it. Which is stupid.

“This is Damon,” Alaric says, and Dianne smiles.

“He seems to be a very good doctor,” she says, and Damon smiles, and has to get away. He returns to the porch, to sit on the step and drink the tea that is now nearly cold.

“You couldn’t look more uncomfortable if you had a live scorpion hanging off your nose,” says Natasha, leaning in the doorway.

Damon shrugs. “Got that pipe?”

Natasha sits by his side, producing the pipe and the tobacco. He smiles his thanks, and expertly packs the pipe, lighting it and puffing gently.

“You seem a little young for a pipe.” Natasha’s voice drips knowledge. She knows he is not that young.

“I’m an old soul,” Damon says, and puffs again.

“I know. I see that.” Damon tries not to narrow his eyes but Natasha doesn’t shift her gaze. “I know what you are.”

Damon curls his lip. “That had better not be a threat. I don’t take well to threats.”

Natasha nods. “Your sort never do. Still I see kindness in Alaric, nothing but that. He wouldn’t choose to be a monster if he didn’t have ample reason to trust.”

Damon’s heart stutters. He puffs, and puffs again, the chocolate flavour of the tobacco encompassing all. You never know who you’ll meet in the wide world.

“How can you tell?”

“The women in my family are witches, for the most part. Not me.” Natasha pulls her cardigan tighter. “But I know enough. I’d best get back to work,” she says, and rises to her feet.

“You won’t tell them.” It’s not a question.

Natasha shrugs. “They’ll be dead within the year. Why trouble them?” She turns on her heel. Pauses a moment, holds Damon’s eyes in her own. “What you did for them, just now. It was good.”

Damon nods, and Natasha heads away.

 

**

 

In the hotel Damon unlocks the door cautiously, and wonders if Alaric has noticed Damon is avoiding meeting his eyes. He lets the door close with a click behind them, dropping an overnight bag by the foot of the bed. His gaze follows as Alaric crosses the room to open the sliding door that leads to the terrace, twenty floors above Boston’s bustle. Alaric stands at the railing, just looking, still as still. Not breathing, either, Damon thinks, as he watches.

After a while Alaric takes a seat on one of the long rattan deck chairs.

Normally if anyone can see through Alaric’s big dark eyes and into his squishy brain it is Damon but this appears to be Residual Human Stuff so Damon does what he can, which is open the bottle of wine sitting on the side table and grab a couple of glasses and go outside and pour drinks. He slips silently onto the terrace as he does it. He is silent, while Alaric swirls the wine in his glass.

“How long could…”

Damon shrugs. “Indefinitely.”

The wine is gone before Damon speaks again, not an hour but not much less. “She wouldn’t want that. You wouldn’t. Your father wouldn’t, either.”

Alaric shakes his head. “No. Still, I got this. Today. Might be the last time I see her. Probably be the last time she sees me, anyway.”

They are silent a good deal longer, stretched out as the sun goes down and the air cools, until Alaric whispers “thank you, Damon.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Ark for the night of Liz's home-made absinthe. *hugs you*


	2. 2013 - A fine deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alaric and Damon ensure that Jeremy gets into RISD.  
> A smutty chapter with very little plot.

2013

It’s an uneventful year. Alaric tries to pin Jeremy down to talk about schools but Jeremy is adamant that he wants to follow Tyler Lockwood to RISD. No accounting for taste, though as far as schools go, he does have a point.

Damon and Alaric take a week-long road trip to Rhode Island to ensure Jeremy will get what he wants. Alaric wonders if this is really the right thing to do.

“Kid’s got talent,” Damon says, shrugging.

“Every kid who applies here has talent,” Alaric argues, examining the artwork that adorns the walls.

“But those kids are boring, and irrelevant to us. Besides, you think Tyler got in on his grades alone? Carol probably blew the admissions officer.”

“You’re not blowing the admissions officer,” Alaric says, and it’s not a request.

They compel him, that’s all they do. And buy the school some fancy schmancy CAD hardware in the name of the elder Gilberts. They watch Tyler from across the quadrangle to make sure he looks thoroughly miserable without Jeremy there (he does).

“We could take him for a beer,” Alaric suggests. “Tell him the good news.”

“Jeremy’s taste in men is terrible,” Damon argues. “Takes all kinds, etc, but life is too short to go drinking with Tyler Lockwood.”

In the Renaissance Hotel on the Avenue of the Arts, Alaric compels them the best room. He does it, not Damon, because it makes Damon’s eyes glitter, big as saucers, to watch him do it; compulsion came easily to Alaric, came easily right from the word go. They make small talk in the lift with an elderly couple visiting from Florida.

The room is luxurious. Damon says it. Says, “this room is _luxurious_.”

“Let’s fuck it up,” is Alaric’s considered response.

 

**

 

Sounds like fun, but they don’t, in the end. They send for room service and tip the server exceptionally well (they do owe her for the pint). They eat rare steaks and skip the vegetables, except the corn. They watch TV while eating chocolate sundaes, in celebration of earlier times.

“You’ve got that look in your eye,” Damon says.

“What look?”

“I fear for my virtue.”

Alaric crawls across the couch to loom over Damon.

Damon frowns. “Get off. I’m watching Criminal Minds.”

Alaric snatches the remote control and switches it off. Damon bites back a grin.

Much as they are often amongst the great writers of great speeches in the proverbial sack, they are at other times quietish and this apparently is to be one of those times. Alaric shifts and drags and rearranges Damon until he is neatly under him.

He holds Damon’s eyes a long while, and Damon’s smirk dims to curiosity. Few people can hold anyone’s eyes for long without laughing, or saying something, but Alaric’s eyes are clear and direct and blown wide and black. For a second the capillaries in his face ripple darker.

It’s Damon that speaks. “You’re inscrutable,” he says. “You got something on your mind?”

“Shut up,” Alaric says agreeably.

There’s a good deal of kissing, quiet kissing, lips only for a time and then gentle, exploratory tongues, and then something a good deal deeper. When kissing is not enough they still go slowly, not the usually push-pull-grab-hoist that marks their usual dynamic. Alaric sits up, a little, straddling Damon’s hips, and unbuttons his shirt from the top, ghosting hands which are running a little warmer, now, over Damon’s chest. He stoops to lick and kiss and tease, eliciting shivers and shudders and unnecessary hitches of breath. Damon’s chest is hairless and chiselled and smooth and unscarred, except for a line running parallel to and a half-inch below his left collarbone where he fell down the stairs at the plantation house as a boy, and cut himself open on a rock.

(“Stefan fainted. _Stefan_. At the sight of blood. The world would be a better place if he still did that,” Damon had said airily, a million years ago, when he’d first told the tale; Alaric had pointed out Stefan was four, at the time, and probably thought his beloved big brother was dying, but Damon’s amusement didn’t fade a whit.)

Damon’s muscles are cut and lean and disappear in an enticing V below the waistband of his jeans.

Damon links his hands behind his head, which Alaric likes; it does wondrous things for Damon’s arms. He also lets his eyes drift closed, which Alaric likes less.

“Open your eyes,” Alaric says.

Damon does, with a smile that lifts one side of his face. “What?” Because, clearly, something.

“You came out here to do something nice for Jeremy.”

Damon rolls his eyes because it’s what he does. “Followed you out here for the sex part. Otherwise I would have let you do it yourself.”

Alaric shakes his head. Slowly unbuckles Damon’s belt. “Nope. The humans have been rubbing off on you. You’d like everyone to think Elena’s the only one you care about but it’s a fucking lie, Damon Salvatore. You’ve gone soft.”

“I. Am. Rock. Hard.”

Alaric slips a clever hand into the front of Damon’s jeans. “So I see,” he says. “Consider me corrected.”

“I like this couch,” Damon says. “Almost enough to buy it. Or one a lot like it, anyway. But there’s not a lot of room.” He waggles his eyebrows in the way that he does.

On the way to the bed he rips Alaric’s shirt open, for the satisfying way the buttons fly around the room. Alaric feigns irritation. “You’ll be sewing them all back on again tomorrow,” he says.

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ in the way he does. “Take off your pants.”

They’re quiet on the bed, too, except for moans and groans and the occasional expletive. Hard and aching. Alaric kneads their cocks together for a good long moment, until Damon flips them so Alaric is underneath him.

“This,” he insists. “This is why I came.”

Alaric grins. “Don’t believe you.”

Damon growls, and bites into his shoulder, enough to draw blood. Alaric groans, and then again and Damon sucks lazily at the wound. “Not as much a part of a balanced diet as I once was,” Alaric complains.

“I make do,” Damon argues. “There are compensations.” As he says it he reaches for the lube on the side table. Alaric drops his legs open with a smile, rolls his hips.

As Damon, unhurried, slicks long, elegant fingers, works Alaric open slowly, Alaric’s face changes, and then back again. “You sure you don’t have any Italian in you?”

“Will in a minute,” Alaric growls. “And no. Entirely German. Why? Oh fuck.”

“Italians are well known world-wide to equate food with love,” Damon says, adding an entirely unnecessary third finger; Alaric won’t stretch any more than he wants to, and he generally prefers a very tight fit, as does Damon, so they are firmly and beautifully attached. He’ll clench hard. Still the intimacy of the preparation is too fucking gorgeous to skip. “And look at you. Insensible with lust and fanging out like you can’t remember when you last ate.” He pumps slowly in and out of Alaric, watching the muscles in his abdomen flex and relax again.

“By your logic, all vampires are Italian. And, fuck. Jesus, Salvatore. Just fuck me.”

Damon is nothing if not obedient. He lifts Alaric’s hips from the bedspread and with exquisite aim, buries himself firmly in the tight, hot centre of the universe.

And even then, they go slow; the furious fucking that is their day to day life should be set aside for a while, in this lovely room, they’ve agreed, silently. Damon does keep talking, though, like a tab has been pulled somewhere. “You’re a terrible vampire, Ric,” he says, as he lets the speed build. “Terrible. It’s been nearly a year, and your body count is zero.”

“We’re batting the same score for the same innings,” Alaric says agreeably, though his voice is gravelled and he twists his body impossibly to pull Damon in further. “And also, fuck you, I am an exceptional vampire.”

“Yeah?” Damon breaks skin again, a ring around Alaric’s nipple.

“Yep. Fuck, Damon. Fuck.”

“Well put,” Damon purrs, and wraps his hand around Alaric’s fantastic erection, rubbing a thumb over the exquisitely silken tip, marvelling at the impossible perfection of it all. There is a list, somewhere, of all the best things about being a vampire, and sex is almost certainly at the top of it, with subheadings: a) everything is heightened, every touch almost too much; b) the cock is by default impossibly perfect and magnificently hard and ready at all hours (the illustration to this is no doubt a water-colour rendition of the cock in Damon’s hand right now); c) point, shoot, reload. Items d) to m) are mainly unintelligible prayers and expletives in foreign languages.

Damon speeds up, and Alaric says something which is doubtless very interesting but not as interesting as the glazed look in his eyes. Damon enjoys controlling sex exactly as much as he enjoys being controlled, which is to say, utterly. He slows down, fucking Alaric with long, slow rolls of his hips; he lifts himself higher, lowers himself onto Alaric’s body again, changing angles; lets Alaric’s hands on his hips dictate a sudden change in pace and then tears control away again. Alaric fucks himself down onto Damon as hard as Damon fucks up into Alaric, because they are both monsters, unbreakable monsters who risk only furniture and not each other, when they do the things they do.

Glorious, fucking outrageous.

They come together, as they often do, one long ripple across two exceptionally fine, strong, lean bodies, and Alaric bites into Damon’s shoulder as he does. Damon leans to lick away salty, copper-flavoured come from Alaric’s chest, still rocking into him, still riding aftershocks.

“Well, that was different,” Damon says, when he’s ready to. “It’ll definitely do for a start.”

Alaric agrees, as Damon withdraws, and starts in with the kissing once again. Touches hotter and hungrier, now the lovemaking is done with; time for some serious fucking.

The height of the couch is ideal for Damon to be bent over while Alaric fucks him from behind, and the shower easily fits two. The water is hot and strong and it turns out room service is available all night, so they order champagne at two a.m. and a bottle of bourbon at three.

Damon agrees in the end. “Yeah, you’re a good vampire,” he says. “Elijah was right. He often is. A magnificent vampire.” He mimics Elijah’s indefinable accent, recalling fond memories, making Alaric laugh.

They are by now tangled together on bed sheets which have been torn by their mutual enthusiasms and are spotted with blood, though the bodies on the bed are miraculously unmarked. With Damon’s face tucked into Alaric’s neck, and with Damon’s hand settling beautifully over the scars on Alaric’s hip (dozens of perfect replicas of Damon’s teeth, overlaid one on the other, marking every moment from the awkward human beginning to the moment Alaric’s heart stopped beating for a while that last time); with Alaric’s leg tucked between Damon’s legs, with Alaric’s hand tucked firmly up over Damon’s shoulder, they sleep as long as they must, which isn’t that long, in the end.

 

**

 

The week they return to Rhode Island to move Jeremy and his ‘roommate’ Tyler into a nice off-campus apartment ends in much the same way, and in the exact same room.

 


	3. 2014 - Mardi Gras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alaric misses breasts. Damon knows the best place to find them, in February.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a foursome between Damon, Alaric and 2 ofcs.

Lazy in bed with the sweat cooling on their bodies Damon and Alaric breathe, unnecessarily, enjoying the sensation, and without knowing where it comes from, Alaric announces: “I miss breasts.”

Damon laughs. “Breasts are good.” He puts a hand behind his head. “It’s February,” he says. “You know where you can find breasts in February? Bare ones?”

Alaric snorts. “Same place you can always find ’em.”

“But in February, you can find them draped in beads. And if you’re lucky – or smart – and I am both, incidentally, in case you hadn’t noticed, you can find them attached to girls with so much acid in their blood that you can hallucinate for days without spending a cent.” Damon says it airily, who-cares, let’s-do-it-or-not, but Alaric hears his heart beat a little faster. Intriguing.

Alaric hitches himself up onto one elbow. “What are you getting at?”

“Mardi Gras.” Damon hoists a filthy eyebrow. “The French Quarter. New Orleans. Have to watch for witches. Some of them are a little prejudiced against our kind. Could be fun. I’ll be Lestat.”

“I’ll be Alaric. This sounds like a good plan.”

Things have been quiet and there doesn’t seem to be a particularly good reason not to drive all the way to New Orleans for a couple of days of smutty entertainment.

Still Alaric has carried his tendency to worry too much across the mortal divide, so he checks in with the kids first. This makes Damon laugh. “If they’re in mortal peril, they usually call. What, you’re worried Elena’s not doing her homework? Jeremy’s running low on lube?”

Alaric ignores Damon, as he very often does.

Tyler answers Jeremy’s phone sounding half asleep and a little hungover.

“Tyler. It’s Alaric. Put Jeremy on.”

“Why are you calling my phone?”

“I didn’t.”

Tyler is horrified – Alaric can almost hear his heart stutter over the phone, and he wastes a few seconds pretending Jeremy’s not under the same duvet as he is, but Jeremy barks something at him – it sounds a lot like _everyone knows, Ty_ – and takes the phone.

“Ric? What?”

“I was going to check everything was quiet and boring and safe since we’re hittin’ the road for a few days. But I guess you’re doing fine.”

“Yeah. Go. Have fun or whatever.” Jeremy hangs up.

Elena warns Alaric that he should get Damon microchipped in case he gets distracted. Alaric says he’ll think about. Elena wishes a warm farewell and says she has a tutorial to get to.

They hit the road.

 

**

 

They have a couple of days to waste so they drive the long way, stopping to drink bourbon and locals, careful always to send them away healthy. This irritates Damon a little. He complains louder than he needs to that he got by just killing the occasional one and leaving the rest woozy and confused and bleeding for a hundred and fifty years, and Alaric should just grow up already.

Alaric ignores it because he has to do it this way. He times himself and measures his satiety like it’s science, because he can’t bear not to, because sometimes he doesn’t want to stop drinking. Because sometimes he can hear what Stefan must hear sometimes, the voice in the back of his head, some part of the ancient lizard brain that says _just a human, just finish him_ and seems disappointed when Alaric stops after one perfectly measured pint.

In a Motel Six – appalling, really, but they hadn’t wanted to fuck on the back seat and hadn’t wanted to wait any longer either – Damon bitches and snarks and finally Alaric takes both of Damon’s wrists in his big hands and says, as he’s said before (obviously Damon needs reminding sometimes) “The day I kill someone who’s not trying to kill me, or you, or one of our humans, I tear off this ring and wait for the sun to come up.”

Damon growls and frowns and growls again and also rolls his eyes, for good measure.

“I’m serious.”

Alaric doesn’t lean to kiss Damon and doesn’t let go and doesn’t drop his gaze but Damon stops bitching eventually and pulls his hands free, reaching for Alaric’s belt.

“Fine,” he says. “You’re a totally crap vampire, though.”

This is the only way Alaric can do this, but he disagrees, because he always does: “Totally awesome vampire.” But he says it with Damon’s mouth against his, kicking off his shoes as Damon does the same.

“I like the way you call them ‘our humans’. Makes them sound like a snack bar.”

Turns out sex at a Motel Six is no different from sex anywhere else (although, the slightly musty smell) but the mattress has magic fingers so afterwards, for the lofty price of two quarters, Damon and Alaric laugh on the bed for thirty minutes.

 

**

 

So the French Quarter is a bit much. Bourbon Street is lined with hundreds of people and smells like sex. Alaric pauses at the mouth of an alley and watches a float go by, tense and alert.

He feels Damon’s lips on the back of his neck.

He speaks without turning. “Bold,” is what he says, but he feels Damon shrug and slip a hand into Alaric’s. Left hand in left hand and then Damon’s right hand on Alaric’s hip. Hips together, Damon’s chest against Alaric’s back. Where they fit.

“One week a year, and this day especially, no one in the whole of Louisiana cares who’s fucking who, as long as they all get some.”

Problem with everyone exactly this horny and drunk and – yes – a lot of drugs swirling deliciously through the blood pumping far too hard for two o’clock in the afternoon is that all of it swirls together into delicious blood soup.

Alaric closes his hand over Damon’s. “Damon…”

Damon growls, and runs teeth and tongue over the flesh on Alaric’s neck. Possessive but also a little irritable. He speaks like he’s reciting a children’s rhyme. “I promise I won’t let you kill anyone. ’kay? Now. Look up there.”

Alaric tilts his head back and up on the decking above the street, girls throw beads and flowers and two are pulling flimsy shirts over their heads. Damon grins, Alaric can feel it.

“What’s your poison? Blonde? Brunette?”

Alaric leans. Back against Damon’s body, into the exploratory fingers running over his hip. “Pale eyes. Black hair.” He smiles.

“Ed’s right. You do have a type.” Damon steps aside and leads them down the street. “Anyway, no rush, and the goth girls will like us best. They won’t be out ’til it gets dark. Also you’ve never had a beignet and we’re only a couple of blocks from Café du Monde.”

The beignets are coated in icing sugar Damon insists on sucking from Alaric’s bottom lip and it’s intoxicating, not needing to be subtle, drinking tiny coffees from tiny cups and watching the world float by, enjoying the feel of eyes on them, the eyes of men and women both. They wander around, stopped occasionally by someone selling beads, or catching them when they are thrown. It’s all mesmerising colour and life and also more than a little seedy, appealing to the dirty hedonist that had slept curling in Alaric’s chest from the day he married Isobel until the first time Damon drank from him, and had never slept again.

They find a bar they like. There are lines everywhere and it is simply not possible to jump to the head of the queue, no matter how pretty you are, but Alaric had proven himself a natural at compulsion right from the very first, so he simply flares his irises and asks politely and an ideally located table is found quickly for them. They sit outside, on the street, for the best view, by the wrought iron facing.

A girl with thick blonde curls, wearing a top she has made by tying bandannas together leans across the facing and takes Damon by the neck of his shirt, pulling him in for a drunk, perfect kiss, all tongues and lips, and Alaric feels himself stir, watching. The girl has lazy eyelids but her eyes are alert, watching everyone and everything.

“You don’t mind if I borrow him?” she asks, sly. Alaric grins and gestures, _be my guest_. “How long can I have him? You want to watch?”

“You got a friend?” Damon asks, running his mouth over the girl’s jaw.

“I’ve got five of them,” she says, eyes drifting shut. Damon tilts his head at the sky, considering the hour.

“It’s a bit early for us. If you can still stand upright in two hours, come back.” The girl takes beads from Damon’s neck and drifts away, making incongruous jazz hands at the sky.

“Plastic glasses,” Alaric complains when their most recently ordered round of drinks arrives, but Damon sneers.

“Hurricanes are supposed to be drunk from plastic,” he disagrees.

“I’m not sure about cocktails in general.” Alaric eyes his drink. All chunks of fruit and everything tasting like five different kinds of rum. Sugary and chemical.

Damon drinks the rest of his hurricane and the rest of Alaric’s before waving down a waiter, and describing in detail the cocktails they would prefer for the rest of the afternoon.

“Bourbon,” he says. “Neat. Never let our glasses empty. No, fuck that. Bring a couple of bottles.”

The waiter nods with his eyes wide and dull, and Alaric is cheered considerably.

It’s the music, maybe, or the too-much-colour. The floats that keep floating down Bourbon Street. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

“This could be our thing,” Alaric muses, and Damon frowns.

“It used to be _my_ thing. I used to be in a krewe. There’s probably photographs of me wearing a cocktail dress from the 1967 Mardi Gras sitting in some mouldy old lawyer’s office. I wonder.”

Alaric snorts bourbon out of his nose.

“A cocktail dress?”

“I have the legs for it. And by the way, it was 1967. Fuck you.” Says it good naturedly, the bourbon mellowing him. “Everybody was cross dressing that year. I fucked a woman in a tuxedo. And speaking of 1967, I really want some absinthe. Shall we stay here, or go?”

A girl with red hair and legs to her armpits folds herself neatly into Alaric’s lap. “I don’t think so,” Alaric says firmly, and she leaps to her feet, irritated. Damon frowns.

“What? Why?” He looks at the girl’s pretty face, and her eyes darken for a second, red black and predatory. “Oh,” he says. The girl struts less than three feet and falls into another lap. “Well spotted.”

“Is this a vampire thing then?” Alaric asks.

Damon shrugs. “Guess it is these days. Poppy Brite has a lot to answer for. Let’s go,” he adds, and they tip their waiter well, before wandering down the street.

 

**

 

It’s dark, and the only lights are neon, catching on the beads and the sequins. Damon is drunk and Alaric is only slightly less drunk. They veer down the street, leering at other men’s wives as they clutch at other women’s husbands, all rough-hitched breath and roaming hands.

The streets are still thick with people and they find a new bar. Before long they are joined by a pair of girls, who giggle in the way girls do, and this time it’s the redhead who likes Damon best, and a Creole girl with skin that looks like it should taste like butterscotch who wants Alaric. They are both dressed in black, with heavy eye makeup, and they wear heavy crucifixes upside down around their necks. The redhead – she admits her name is Samantha before she gets a chance to make up something a little more exotic – is embarrassed, when Damon traces the crucifix with his finger. It hangs a little lower than the beads around her neck.

“You know this means nothing, right?” he says, but not unkindly, with his eyebrows waggling in a Damonesque way. Samantha giggles into his neck.

“It’s the uniform,” she admits. “The Cure is the soundtrack. Everything else is trimming. Thick gravy goodness.” The girls drink bright blue cocktails with mermaids hanging off the sides.

The Creole girl leans part of the way across the table and takes Alaric’s hand. “I’ll read your fortune,” she says, and unfurls his fingers.

“Really?” He smiles.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “My mom’s a witch. I have a little sight. Not like her. A little.” In New Orleans, with skin this colour (Alaric tips his chin, imagining what his lips will look like over her dark nipples) ‘my mom’s a witch’ could mean anything from ‘my mom sells tacky voodoo shit to tourists’ to ‘fuck with me and everyone you know will die a wasting disease’. But she unfolds his fingers, and sips her blue drink.

Her heart stutters. “You have… a very long life line,” she says. “Clean. But it broke, back here. Over and over.”

Alaric smiles, a little. “You must be reading it wrong.”

Her eyes are black as coal. She looks sure, but she shakes her head.

“I am so full of acid I’m not sure your hair isn’t on fire, but I’m sure I’m not reading it wrong,” she says slowly, and then meets Alaric’s eyes. “I’m not. Oh… oh, fuck, I’m not, am I? You crossed the veil. More than once.”

Damon tenses. The redhead mouths at his earlobe. “She’s full of shit,” she announces, with some authority. “It’s schtick.”

“No, it’s not,” Damon says. “What else does it say? And do me next.”

“What’s your name?”

The girl meets Alaric’s eyes, unafraid. “Marie.” She traces the lines. “Show me the other one.”

Alaric places his other palm flat on the table, and swigs heavily at his absinthe with the treacherous withdrawn hand.

“You loved a faithless woman,” she says. “You will never have children. But you have two you care for. Not children. Young. And there are more to come. None related by blood.”

“Not bad,” Damon says. “What else?”

“You’re in love with him,” Marie says, eyes flickering across to Damon and then meeting Alaric’s again. “How did you die? Why did you die?”

“He killed me, the first time.” Alaric pulls Marie from her chair, into his lap, and she smiles, intrigued. “The last time, too, and once in the middle.”

“This is fantastically debauched,” Damon says. “Do me.” He holds out his hand, too. Places it on the table.

“You match,” Marie says. The light is low and it is hard to see but she climbs from Alaric’s lap and lines up their hands on the table, side by side like baby cats. “Look.”

Alaric’s hand is larger but the lines are the same. They compare tiny details. The neon lights flash and the Zydeco band makes it hard to concentrate but the lines are the same. Except where Alaric died over and over. Damon traces the broken section with the finger of his other hand.

“What are you?”

Marie’s gaze is clear and direct but Samantha looks nervous. Alaric lets his eyes blacken, partially, lets the capillaries in his face engorge and then drain away. Marie takes in the minute shift in the cant of his jaw, the fangs descending just below his upper lip, and for a moment she wears fear on her face. “Are you going to kill us?”

“No,” Alaric promises. “And we won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He leans to swallow whatever words she plans to shape next, and her lips taste like cherry cola and curacao.

 

**

 

There is no way to book a hotel room in the French Quarter this week less than a year in advance but Damon compelled this room. The couple they found in it that morning were on their way back to wherever they came from, and probably a little confused by now as to exactly why. The bed is ridiculous in size and luxurious in aspect and Damon wastes no time stripping his shirt away, his ridiculous leather pants. Damon leans back against the pillows, as Samantha straddles his hips.

Alaric pours drinks, and watches, as Samantha leans to kiss Damon’s mouth. Awkward and unskilled but enthusiastic.

Marie holds Alaric’s eyes as she measures rum.

“My mother warned me about vampires. I never really believed her. You definitely won’t kill us?”

“I haven’t killed anyone yet,” he promises. “And I don’t plan to. But.”

“But you want a drink.”

Alaric smiles. “I do.”

“I trust you. That probably makes me stupid. Or. You know. High. But I trust you.” She sips from her drink, and turns to the bed, where Damon has pulled Samantha’s shirt over her head. “Will it hurt?”

“By the time we’re there, you will have come at least twice and you won’t feel a thing.”

Marie smiles, and leans to kiss Alaric, and Alaric leads her to the bed.

Damon is gorgeously nude and Samantha is swiping a too-practised mouth over the planes of his pale body by the time they are there. “Four in the bed,” Marie says. “Or is it? I might have spiders in my brain. Fuck. I sorta wish I wasn’t tripping, suddenly,” she admits. “Or maybe it’s good. Maybe I haven’t just brought my best friend to bed with a gay vampire couple,” she muses. “Maybe we got arrested and I’m sitting in jail. Much safer.”

Samantha has her face buried in Damon’s crotch, blowing him like a pro, fingers clutching at his hips the way Damon likes, when Damon speaks. “We’re obviously not exactly _gay_. Just totally satisfied with each other. You talk too much. Take your clothes off.” He stops speaking, then, because apparently Samantha gives excellent head, better than she kisses, anyway, and Marie stands by the bed, stripping her clothes away slowly, all curves and hair, while Alaric watches, and undresses also.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and he feels Damon’s fingers dance across the small of his back.

“So are you,” she agrees, slipping beneath him on the bed.

There is nothing missing in Alaric’s life, with Damon in his bed and in his heart and making him breakfast and enticing him on weekend trips away to kill douchebag vampires who encroach on their territory and leave bodies behind. Still the smell of a girl, ripe and ready, is not unwelcome, and Alaric does, occasionally, miss girls, so he takes Marie’s nipple in his mouth, scrapes his teeth – not fangs – beneath the weight of her breast, thrilling to her moan. She turns, then, and tangles her fingers in her friend’s hair, which does bode well for the rest of the night.

This is interesting, a slow start, quite sensual and absorbing. Alaric kneels between Marie’s thighs, runs his fingers over the soft skin he finds there, and she tenses, her shoulders and curls her toes as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, running his tongue from the back of her knee to not-quite-where she wants it. Repeats on the other leg, as he feels, rather than sees, Samantha lower herself onto Damon’s cock, gasping. Probably she hasn’t fucked anyone with that impressive length often enough. Alaric wishes her well as Marie’s thighs close over his head.

The secret, he learned the second he was old enough for it to be a relevant lesson, is that the cunt loves to be treated like a mouth – a mouth with a tiny cock in it. Kiss the mouth, tease the clit, don’t be afraid of teeth (but don’t bite, he reminds his reptile-brain). Marie starts to swing her hips like she’s not sure how to stop. She hooks her legs over Alaric’s arms, pulling him in further, and she tastes faintly of almonds and spice, and soon she starts to moan, hot little noises punched from her chest, muscles starting to twitch just beneath the surface of her skin.

“Can I call you Ric?”

Alaric makes a noise he hopes sounds agreeable.

“Then fuck me, Ric,” she says, and she arches up, every caramel inch of her, all too gorgeous, all curves and a soft mound of belly and fantastically large breasts and Alaric pulls himself back up and over her body, pressing in and up exactly in time for Marie’s hips to roll and take him.

She is exquisitely present and hot and wet like silk, rolling honed muscles over and around him, taking all of him, shifting suddenly to wrap her legs hard around his hips, deeper again.

It’s been a long time. A long time. Alaric runs lips and tongue over Marie’s throat, feeling her pulse, smelling the blood that rushes just beneath the surface of her skin.

Nothing is missing with Damon in his bed but this is fucking sweet.

Alaric feels his face change, and tries to shake it off, but he can’t. He moulds his body into a perfect arc, deeper, reaching across the bed to tangle his fingers into Damon’s, the unspoken plea, _don’t let me kill anyone, never let me kill anyone_ and Damon clutches back, _I won’t_.

Not because he thinks it’s wrong. Just because he doesn’t want Alaric to tear the ring from his finger and march into the sunrise.

Marie runs a hand over Alaric’s jaw as the pace increases, as he rocks into her, an African lullaby, a gentle drum beat. “Do it,” she whispers. “It’s okay.”

It’s not. Alaric has never fed like this, drenched in hormones. He lowers himself back onto Marie’s body, runs a dangerous mouth over her throat.

“It’s okay,” she says again, soothing, though her breath catches. “I trust you.”

“Not your throat,” he insists, and Marie’s eyes seem to understand.

Alaric is suddenly aware Damon is paying close attention and he is grateful, as Marie offers up a wrist and Alaric swipes a tongue over it, as he bites down.

She cries out, she does, but she rolls her hips as well, and it must be as much pleasure as pain. Alaric remembers, sort of, though it seems like a long time ago now; the early days with Damon when it seemed he was never done, never satisfied, until Damon had drawn blood. And yes it hurt and yes it was glorious, all of Damon’s want concentrated into a sharp point of pain, as much a part of making love as the first kiss, and it makes him wonder if his eyes ever went as wide as Marie’s eyes are now.

Suddenly Damon is behind him, soothing, running one and then two slicked fingers into Alaric and Alaric is suddenly pressing back between thrusts, and jesus fuck, jesus fuck. Acid can’t and doesn’t kick in this fast but by some ridiculous supermetaphysiology which is definitely not a word in any dictionary it goes directly and immediately to his brain, and no, Alaric is not hallucinating exactly, but the world is clearly more intense, suddenly, with Damon behind him and Marie in front of him and Marie kissing Samantha who is curled at their side and with what must be the taste of Damon in both of their mouths, and jesus fuck, jesus fuck. Perfect, too perfect, the smells in the room, Marie’s gently spiced blood, the hint of cayenne and smoked peppers. Damon’s lips on his neck, the known stretch, the slap of hard muscle against hard muscle, exquisite impossible chemicals in Alaric’s brain.

Yeah, Mardi Gras rocks.

Alaric can’t stop himself. He bites into his own lower lip and drops it into Marie’s mouth. Even as she sucks and sucks hard her eyes plead, don’t kill me. _Don’t kill me_. But she must feel her wrist knit shut, because she calms, and her eyes go gorgeously wider and brighter as she clamps down ferociously around Alaric one more time and comes hard, sending him over the edge as well; but he keeps his arms taut, with Damon thrusting into him still, long moments, and then Damon’s shuddering orgasm finally brings them all to a halt.

Damon rolls away, because really, the weight of two vampires on one girl is a bit much.

There is a long moment of silence. Then, “Mine didn’t bite me,” Samantha says, plaintively, and Damon rolls, straddles her.

“I’ll bite you,” he says, and leans to runs lips over her side, and she squeaks, oddly, beautifully, as Damon sinks elegant fangs into soft flesh; Alaric watches her run her hand over Damon’s head, her fingers in Damon’s hair.

Damon pulls away, slowly, licking up the blood that seeps from her hip. Leaning back onto his feet, hard again already, and blinking strangely. “Where did you get that stuff?” he asks, an oddly young un-Damonish smile washing lazily across his features. “Tell me it’s not voodoo enhanced.”

“Is this real?” Samantha’s eyes are heavily lidded, and she looks confused.

Marie climbs out from underneath Alaric, pulls her friend against her. “It’s real, baby doll,” she says, kissing Samantha’s mouth, grounding her. “Vampires and everything. The girls won’t believe it.”

Damon has slipped, slippery, from the bed, to collect drinks from the bar. He distributes them appropriately and climbs back onto the bed, into the middle where he always likes to be. He presses his back against Alaric’s chest. Alaric throws back the bourbon and places the glass on the side table, wrapping himself around Damon.

They all lie silent for a long moment. “You are both so beautiful,” Marie says, “or else I am higher than I thought.” She settles herself partly on her side, on her elbows, to sip at her drink.

“Oh, we’re hot. No question.” Damon says it airily, throwing a hand behind him, cupping Alaric’s neck. “But you are, too.”

Marie is emboldened by vampire blood and after the puts her drink on the nightstand she leans, rolls, curves herself into and against Damon’s body. “My mother would probably order an exorcist if she knew I just fucked a vampire,” she admits, “and she’s famous enough so they would line up to do what she asked. Fuck.”

Alaric bites into Damon’s shoulder, and Damon pushes up against his mouth. It hurts, and it is perfect, and Damon loves it, and Alaric drinks.

Damon is too still, planning something. “Kiss her,” he tells Marie, and Maries smiles, and pulls Samantha on top of her. They kiss deeply, while Alaric reaches around to pull gently on Damon’s cock. If Damon compelled her, they’d be fighting right now, but Marie’s eyes are intelligent, even if her pupils are blown wide with lust and delicious hallucinogens.

Damon shifts his body, lies on his back. He doesn’t ask, he says “fuck me” and Alaric is nothing if not easily encouraged. Damon rolls, arcs his back, and turns his face to the side to watch Marie and Samantha devour each other.

“I’m all for the rainbow of human sexuality,” he groans, “but I have to admit, the whole concept of sex without dick is weird to me. I’ve always figured, the more dick, the better,” and then he proves his point by pushing hard against Alaric, who has Damon’s hips angled just up and away from the bed. “But there has to be at least _one_.”

Marie looks up punch-drunk from between Samantha’s thighs. “You know how well you know that body? How well you know to make a man moan?” she says, flicking her eyes from Damon’s face to Alaric’s and back again (and how Alaric is able to pay much attention to this when the whole room is melting in glorious patchwork day-glo colours, he’s not sure, but he does manage). “We’re the same.”

Damon flicks an eyebrow north, and Alaric can read that eyebrow like the first headline above the fold: ‘Sure! But There’s Still No Dick.’

 

**

 

They do sleep, eventually, intoxicated on blood and sex and all the rest of it. Tangled like string, like yarn in a basket.

“Let me sort this out in the morning,” Alaric murmurs, against Damon’s ear. Damon is still blinking slowly, riding out the last of the drug, running the tips of his elegant fingers over Samantha’s shoulder.

“You do that,” Damon answers. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” They don’t say it often, but from time to time, a reaffirmation is just the thing.

 

**

 

Alaric wakes and runs a shower and Damon joins him. “What is your plan, then? You haven’t become attached, I hope?” He presses Alaric’s body against the cool tile. “We’re not keeping them. That was fun but Samantha is as dumb as a post. Sweet girl, though. Mouth like a Hoover.”

Alaric runs soft lips over Damon’s, and they take long moments to ensure they are both quite clean.

On the bed Marie and Samantha are curled up, again. The contrast between Samantha’s pale skin and Marie’s caramel is gorgeous and Damon tips his chin. “Cute.”

Alaric sits on the bed, and the girls wake, a little, turning to where Alaric sits. Damon stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed and his lips curled.

“Good morning,” Marie says, and she reaches across to take Alaric’s hand.

“Very good morning. Listen,” he says, and he flares his irises, just a touch, and the girls’ eyes go wide and flat.

“I’m listening,” Samantha says, but Marie just looks a little sad; she’s under, though, she’s definitely compelled.

“You’ll remember everything, if you want to.”

“I’ll remember,” Marie agrees.

“You won’t remember our names, though, or our faces.” Alaric traces the bow of Marie’s lip, and she blinks slowly. “Okay,” she says.

“What’s my name?”

Alaric leans to kiss her, to smell her breath one more time.

“Can’t remember.” She looks sad.

Damon leans against the bed frame. “Stay as long as you want. Invite some friends. Use room service. Have a nice couple of days on us. And watch out for vampires,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “Most aren’t as cuddly as we are.” He hoists his overnight bag onto his shoulder, and Alaric does the same, and with Marie and Samantha snuggling together in the centre of the huge bed, they take their leave.

They’re an hour and change across the Louisiana border when Alaric grins, and stretches, and speaks. “So that was Mardi Gras.”

“Hmm-hmm.” Damon smirks.

“Got a photo from 1967?”

“No,” Damon smirks. “By the way, you say a word about that to Stefan, when we get him back, and I’ll stake you.”

“Not a worry. Why tell anyone? I’m gonna hold that over you for the next thousand years.” They are silent as trees and billboards go by, signs to backwater churches and apple orchards.

“I booked that same room for next year,” Damon admits. “Just in case.”

 


	4. 2015 - Godzilla vs Mothra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two hybrids try to kidnap Elena on her way home from the library, one night.  
> As luck would have it, it becomes an epic battle between two hybrid packs. Tyler and Jeremy help.

A pair of rogue hybrids make an attempt to abduct Elena as she returns home from the library one night, and would have succeeded had she not been trained to carry vervain and wolfsbane everywhere she goes. If she didn’t run six miles a day. If Damon hadn’t made her learn to use obstacles to her advantage, to throw herself through impossibly small gaps, to use her own momentum to clear a fence before her pursuer had fully committed to even trying it. Although she has run less than three miles when she finally shakes them off, they are a fast three miles, close to a sprint for the first mile, and she is shaking and a little dehydrated when she calls Alaric.

“Should we fly or drive?” Alaric worries, throwing clothes into a sports bag. “Flying’s faster.”

Damon shakes his head. “Drive,” he says. “Can’t take this kind of arsenal on a plane. Imagine how many people we’d have to compel.” He’s aiming for levity but it falls flat.

They drive the six hundred miles in just under seven hours, compelling three highway patrol cops along the way, and find Elena in a hotel (rule is, she picks the first hotel that starts with E in the phone book and checks in under the name ‘Caroline Bennett’. Damon has furnished her with a credit card under this name which she is only to use in such situations).

Alaric smiles broadly when he sees her.

She narrows her eyes and curls up her lip. “Why are you smiling? I was nearly Alpo.”

“I’m smiling because you’re steady as a rock, Elena. You look pissed off, not scared. You did everything right. First big test.” He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. Proud poppa.

Placated, she cocks her head. “Huh. Not bad.”

 

**

 

It takes most of the night to track the two hybrids down. They are in human form when Damon and Alaric find them leaving a bar and traipsing down an alley. Without breaking his stride Alaric punches into the first one’s chest, ripping out his heart. Damon throws the second to the ground, knocks him out with a syringe full of wolfsbane. He and Alaric drag him to a shipping container in a storage yard near the water and tie him up. Alaric spins a knife in his hand, throwing it up in the air, catching the very tip of the business end each and every time.

“It’s ridiculously hot watching you tear hearts from chests, Ric,” Damon purrs, from across the other side of the container. “I mean, really.”

Alaric grins, incredulous; “You taught me that.”

“I did. And I will be eternally grateful for my own genius in doing so. And to Elijah, who inspired the technique. Huh. Haven’t seen Elijah in a while.”

Alaric laughs, full throated. A good sound. “You want to invite him around for a drink some time?”

Damon crosses the space faster than can be believed, pinning Alaric to the wall, biting his lower lip. “Could be fun. You could hold your own, now,” he growls, and Alaric laughs again.

“Fuckin’ pervert,” Alaric murmurs, kissing back.

The hybrid wakes up a little later to a grim view; Damon and Alaric with their arms crossed over their chests, contemplating a table spread with torture implements. They have rigged a bare bulb in a way that reminds them both of low-budget horror films. Quite unnecessary but the floodlighting wasn’t nearly as dramatic and it had been easy to rig it up.

The hybrid tries to puff himself up even as the wolfsbane in the ropes burns his wrists.

“So,” Alaric says. “Where are you from?”

“Ain’t tellin’ you shee-yit,” the hybrid says.

Damon gives him a considered look. “You’re telling us pretty loudly that you’re from Tennessee, with that twang of yours. Which means all we really need to know is which pack you’re with. There’s only two.” Damon lifts a curved, silver instrument from the table, wickedly sharp at one end and with a grappling barb at the other. “Hey, Ric? What do you do with this?”

Alaric frowns. “Not sure. Just... experiment.”

The hybrid talks and talks and talks. Gives up his pack and his mother and his PIN code and his mother’s PIN code.

Damon tears his heart from his chest with a minimum of fuss. Stands with the silver tool in one hand and the heart in the other. “That was sort of... boring,” he says. “Makes you appreciate a man like Mason Lockwood.”

“Indeed,” Alaric agrees, untying the ropes so they can wrap the body in a sheet.

“Here,” Damon says, holding the heart out to Alaric. Alaric frowns. “Oh, come on. It’s romantic.”

“Huh,” Alaric says, with a twinkle in his eye. “Let’s get cleaned up, and I’ll let you give me a blow job instead.”

“You’re full of good ideas after a hunt.”

Once the bodies have both been burned Damon makes good on his promise and then they take Elena out for dinner. Afterwards they take her back to her dorm to collect some clothes and set her up to stay in the hotel a few more days.

“I don’t want to leave you on your own,” Alaric says.

Elena shakes her head. “My boyfriend is coming to stay.”

It’s Damon who gets irritated by this. “Has he been vetted? Is he human? What’s his name?” Damon crosses his arms over his chest. Frowns. “Why haven’t we met him?”

Alaric pushes Damon out the door after promising they’ll call when they have news.

 

**

 

Tennessee has two packs of hybrids and neither cares much for the other. Damon and Alaric drive across the country again after stocking up on additional weapons.

Thing about hybrids. A couple at a time and it’s zing-zing, tears those hearts out, rip off a head or two.

The packs are about twenty strong each.

On average a wolf pack – the non-wereish type – is about six or seven wolves. With exceptional leadership, bordering on devotion, and with one strong Alpha male, fifteen is about the maximum.

Hybrids, somewhat more able to reason with each other, seem to manage maybe twenty. Any challenge to leadership is dealt with via a fight to the death. In nature, amongst wolves, it is a fight for victory, with the loser slinking off alone, to eat scraps and resign himself to the fact that there is unlikely to be any sex in his immediate future. With hybrid packs the fight doesn’t end until the loser is dead. Tyler has admitted the heart is usually eaten by the victor. He maintains friendly ties with a couple of young men in one of the packs for the sake of information sharing; luckily for him, and for them, not the pack responsible for the almost-abduction of Elena.

One pack lives in a bizarre constellation of trailer homes on a forest borderland. The other has a series of shacks. They have their own homes, too, some of them. They seem for the most part to crave the open space, though. It makes Alaric wonder how Tyler does, tied to a small apartment in a bustling city.

(It should be said, Alaric wonders about a lot of things to do with Tyler: in particular, what Jeremy will do about being an ageing human in a relationship with an eternal seventeen year old. It seemed Elena had made her decision about this – would be remaining human, though it broke Stefan’s heart, and he was currently who-knew-where doing who-knew-what – but would Jeremy choose the same?)

In the long moments it takes for Alaric to think all of this, Damon watches his expression change.

“What are you thinking about?”

They are pulling up to a hotel, planning to get a decent night’s sleep and gather a little more information before letting the catastrophe unfold.

“Jeremy.”

Damon raises an eyebrow. “I thought you preferred older men. Much older.”

Alaric grins. “You’re disgusting.”

They compel the room because they don’t want a paper trail, and Alaric makes Damon promise they’ll leave a good tip to make up for it. Once inside Damon microwaves blood and pours bourbon.

“This plan…” Alaric traces the route they plan to take. They know it, they’ve travelled it before, when Alaric was still human, and with Elena, but it never hurts to be better prepared.

“It is so cute the way you keep calling this a ‘plan’,” Damon says, his eyebrows knit in the middle, as he drinks from the mug. “Really. Adorable.”

“It _is_ a plan.”

“Godzilla versus Mothra. That is not a plan. It’s an episode of _Supernatural_.”

“It’s a _plan_.” Alaric knows he sounds less than convinced. “Don’t get bitten, get them to kill each other. Solid plan. Incidentally, can wolves climb trees?”

Damon types furiously on his phone. “Google says some can. Plus, knowing our luck.” He throws the phone on the table. “And anyway, vampires certainly can. They’re both, remember.”

Alaric rubs his eyes. “There has to be a better way to do this.”

“I’m all for locking Elena up for the rest of her life. Keep her safe. These guys will just kill each other, eventually.”

Alaric finishes the mug of blood, and the bourbon, and sits on the edge of the bed. After a moment he thinks better of it and lies back. “This is fucked.”

Damon lies alongside him. “Yep. And we still don’t even know what a hybrid bite does.”

“Tyler bit Caroline. She would have died, without Klaus’s blood.”

Damon rolls, pressing Alaric into the mattress. “We don’t even know that’s true. He was trying rather hard to get into her pants at the time.”

It’s an argument they’ve had so many times it has taken on the quality of burnished steel.

They kiss, just like that. Just a kiss. Alaric rests his hands against Damon’s ribs. “On a lighter note, if we die tomorrow, it’s been nice knowing you.” Alaric tenses, frowns. “Is that…?”

“Tyler. And Jeremy.”

Damon gets the door open just as Jeremy is about to knock.

“Has anyone ever told you how creepy that is?” Jeremy crosses his arms. “Let a person knock.”

Alaric squints. “Were you always as tall as me?”

“Prize for the weirdest non-sequitur goes to… are you going to ask us in?” Jeremy’s hair is wet, and his jacket is too. It’s raining out, again. The wolves won’t care but it will suck for Damon and Alaric.

Behind Jeremy, Tyler looks stressed.

“It’s a hotel. You don’t need an invitation.” Alaric is still standing in the doorway.

“It’s polite.”

There is a long and weird moment and then Jeremy pushes through, sighing, while Alaric shakes his head. “Sorry. What are you even doing here?”

Tyler looks sheepish. “We spoke to Elena. Thought it might be worth trying to connect you with the, uh, less bad pack. Negotiate. Better than you both getting eaten, anyway. Unless you have a plan?”

He looks hopeful. Probably, he’s enjoying the quiet life, is less than keen to get caught up in hybrid politics.

“We have a plan,” Alaric says.

“The plan sucks,” Damon adds, cheerfully enough. “Hungry, Lockwood?”

Tyler nods, and Damon warms him a mug of blood. Jeremy shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a chair. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any actual food? Forget I asked.”

Alaric shakes his head. “Come on. There’s a bar downstairs.”

 

**

 

The bar is almost deserted so they find a large booth, and order food; no real reason not to, and it seems weird to make Jeremy eat alone. Jeremy, for his part, seems relaxed, though Tyler is as uptight as ever, even as he sneaks glances at his lop-haired boyfriend. Jesus. 2015. Supposed to be past all the self-loathing bullshit.

“How does Elena even know where we are?” It is the first time it has even occurred to Alaric that this is odd.

Damon shrugs. “I sent her a message. What? It’s not like she would have followed us. I just figured if we get killed, she could organize someone to pick up your truck.”

Tyler throws back a beer, refills his glass. Calls for another pitcher.

Jeremy shakes his head.

“Don’t start, Jer,” Tyler warns, and then to Damon and Alaric, he says “Tell us the plan.”

Somehow explaining it from the beginning makes it sound exactly as bad as it really is.

Tyler spends a long time blinking. “Godzilla versus Mothra? That’s your whole plan? Ever occur to you that they’ll eat you both and then wander off? They’re co-existing, man. Maybe just barely but they are. Seriously. _Seriously_.”

“Kind of my point, Ty. Equilibrium. If the other pack gets bigger – and there’s no reason to kidnap Elena if that’s not what they’re trying to do – that accord will be gone. They should _want_ to help us.” Alaric can’t be sure who he’s trying to convince.

“We’re not like vampires. We’re… animals,” Tyler says, brow furrowed, shoulders hunched.

Damon kicks Jeremy’s leg under the table. “Lucky Jeremy.”

“Shut up, Damon.” Alaric chances a glance at Tyler, who looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

Jeremy nudges him. “Go on,” he says. Tyler drains his glass. “Tell them.”

There is a long silence as Tyler pretends no one is staring at him and clears condensation off the side of his glass with the blade of his hand.

Eventually, Jeremy sighs. “The difference -”

Tyler cuts him off. “Look. The pack you’re looking for… they lost their sire bond with Klaus when Klaus died. They have a lot of his… drives, urges, whatever.”

“Meaning? Crush kill destroy? Chase pretty blonde vampires around and draw pictures of them?” Damon flinches as Alaric drives an elbow into his ribs. “I thought people got smarter at college. Talk.”

Tyler rubs his forehead. Jeremy puts an arm out to steady him but Tyler is clearly still in a state of denial despite the fact they’ve been living together almost two years and sleeping together since… well, Alaric isn’t clear on that part. Longer. Tyler has that haunted self-hate you still see sometimes and Alaric wonders when it will go away. He wonders, too, how Jeremy is so unruffled.

None of his business. Yet. So long as Jeremy is alright.

In the end it’s Damon who starts to push. “Talk or I’ll tie you up and tickle you with wolfsbane until you do.”

“The bad pack doesn’t have a strong Alpha.” Alaric is about to disagree; they’ve seen him. “They don’t. He’s there because he wins the fights but he has no direction. None of them have since a certain history teacher and his undead sidekick killed their _actual_ Alpha. And yes, I mean Klaus. They _lost_ their bond. Totally different.”

(Damon looks ready to jump in at the implication that he, and not Alaric, is the sidekick; but he says nothing.)

It makes an odd sort of sense. Alaric imagines the disconnect they must feel and wonders how many other packs around the country are as unfocussed. With any luck it’s only these two packs (with the closest physical proximity to Mystic Falls and the most time spent with their cherubic leader) who know anything about Elena. Perhaps the other packs just know there is ‘special’ blood.

“Why only that pack?” Alaric leans forward in his seat and crosses his arms on the table. “All the sire bonds must have been lost when we killed Klaus.”

“The other pack has a proper Alpha. Before Klaus died they threw off their bond.” Tyler pours more beer and continues to drink too quickly.

“How did they manage that?” Damon’s voice drips incredulity.

“I showed them how.” Tyler won’t look up, studies the coaster in his hand instead.

“You… weren’t sired? When Klaus died?”

“Obviously not.” Tyler begins to strip the coaster into tiny shreds. Manic, unfocussed energy. He abandons the coaster and picks at a fingernail.

Damon’s voice is a low, threatening roll. “There’s nothing obvious about it.”

Tyler wants to disappear into the ground; Jeremy wants to support and cajole. Alaric wants the whole story; Damon wants violence.

Alaric and Jeremy get what they want.

“After I attacked Caroline’s dad, I went to Colorado,” Tyler admits at last. “It wasn’t really a plan. I just couldn’t stay in Mystic Falls and as pathetic as it is I didn’t want to be on my own, either. So I followed Jeremy. Took me a few days hitchhiking ’cause I didn’t want to leave a paper trail, but I got there.”

Jeremy smiles small.

“By the time I did, Jer had found somewhere I could… change, without hurting anyone.”

“You knew he was heading out that way?” Damon frowns.

“I… thought he might.”

“Do you want to hear this or not? I’m not starting again.” Tyler means it, too; his eyes flash, the muscles across his arms ripple dangerously.

Damon leans back, his arm barely brushing Alaric’s against the back of the booth seat.

“He brought me animals and blood bags,” Tyler says, “and he didn’t let me out for anything for weeks. He hung out and talked through the bars after school and on weekends but other than that all I did was change and change back for a month.”

When Tyler had come back, he’d been huge. The muscles in his arms and torso, always big, had been bigger, none of his clothes had fit right. It had been startling. Alaric had imagined him running across states, across forests; but he’d been locked up, the whole time, with Jeremy’s calm voice speaking to him through bars in a basement dungeon.

“The big test was my second full moon. I guess about… five weeks in. I sat on one side of the door and Jeremy sat on the other and we talked all night.”

“All night. You mean -”

“I mean I didn’t change. Only night of the month the moon actually pulls at me and I got through it. I don’t change, any more, unless I want to, and it… hurts, but it’s not like it was. I can survive it now. Before, I was close to…” He doesn’t need to finish.

“But you can still change.” Alaric is genuinely curious. They’ve known exactly two hybrids and the other wasn’t prone to long conversations. At least not long conversations about anything he didn’t want to talk about. Speechifying was actual one of his strongest skills.

“Yeah. But like I said. Only when I want to.”

“Why would you want to at all?” Alaric asked.

“I told you, man. We’re animals. We have to run, hunt. It’s like you guys. If you only drink animal blood you go all psycho or whatever. Pull a Stefan.” He darts eyes at Damon. “Sorry. But you do, right? And so do we, if we’re locked up. So I change, go running. Not often.”

This time, he doesn’t resist when Jeremy leans up just slightly against his arm.

There is the clatter of a chair against a table, and a huge, very drunk redneck staggers towards them.

“Farken quaaaars,” he sneers, readying to smash the bottle. “We ain’t doin’ with your kahnd, rahnd here,” he goes on, and then pales. Three sets of eyes darken. There is the quiet snick of fangs settling into place.

The redneck swallows. Hard. Squints, at the faces and then the bottle.

Jeremy smiles. “You were sayin’?”

The redneck walks away. Stumbles away, more like. Drops the bottle and just goes. Alaric can’t help but wonder if he would tell, and if so, what? _I was just about to glass this bunch of guys on the off chance one of them was planning to try to suck my cock. I left them alone, though, because they were vampires_.

Nah. Alaric smiles as his features settle back to human.

Tyler looks worse than ever.

“It’s alright, Ty,” Jeremy says, softly.

Damon looks thoughtful, drinking his beer. “Does any of this translate into a plan?”

Tyler shrugs. “I dunno, man. I just know they’re not evenly matched and I don’t think baiting them into a fight is a good idea.” He slumps, elbows on the table. “Because I have no clue who would win the fight.”

He turns the glass in his hand. “If you put away the inter-species bullshit and negotiate, be honest, maybe there’s a shot.”

Damon doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close thing.

Jeremy butts in, then. “Could you make it seem like you’re doing them a favor, instead of trying to get them to do you one? Or at least, like it’s good for you both?”

Maybe. Still. Hybrids.

 

**

 

They retire to separate rooms, Jeremy and Tyler in a room four doors further from the stairs than the one Damon and Alaric had taken. Alaric takes a long shower. As expected, Damon joins him. No interest in getting clean. The shower is cramped, but they manage, and life is, after all, meant to be reaffirmed and lived.

They get clean eventually, as the water starts to go cold. Dry themselves adequately, and slip under the covers.

“So it’s not gonna work.” Alaric lies with one hand beneath his head and Damon alongside him. “It was a terrible plan. We still have to do something.”

“I’m telling you. Lock her up somewhere no one can find her, until they all kill each other.” Damon snorts. “And what’s this boyfriend crap?”

Alaric laughs softly. “Still carrying a torch?”

“Fuck you.” Damon says it fond and fierce, snaking an arm over Alaric’s body. “You should be all impressed that I give a crap about anyone at all.”

They kiss, quickly, and sleep for a few hours.

 

**

 

Damon and Alaric wake before the sun and have a spot of lazy sex, just rocking into each other’s hands, the best way they know to say ‘good morning’. They shower separately and warm mugs of blood in the microwave. “Not so warm,” Alaric complains. “I hate when it starts going thick on the top.”

“Means you’re not drinking fast enough.” Damon passes the mug. Neither can sit still so they open the map again, tracing routes through the forest. Mapping terrain because they need an easy escape and plenty of obstacles.

There is a tentative knock on the door and Alaric opens it before the third knock, accustomed, now, to knowing when there is someone approaching.

“You got anything to eat?” Tyler asks, before entering. “I’m starving.”

“How are you getting by on Rhode Island?”

“Got a friend at the blood bank,” Tyler says, gratefully microwaving a mug of blood. “And I don’t need as much as you do. Listen. I think we should call my friends. In the pack.”

“Where’s Jeremy?” Alaric wants to know.

“Sleeping. Human, remember?” Tyler doesn’t meet Alaric’s eyes, just drinks. Alaric wonders if he should make the effort to speak to Tyler, properly, if they survive this. Kid didn’t exactly have a lot of good male role models, growing up; Richard Lockwood was a dick, pardon the pun. Mason could have done a better job but he was barely around, and then he was dead. “He needs more than a couple of hours.”

“He’s not coming with us,” Damon warns.

“I know. He knows. He’s cool.” Tyler finishes his breakfast, looking more comfortable already. “I need actual food, too,” he adds, rinsing the mug. “Anyway, I -”

“You do?”

Maybe this should not come as a surprise, but it does.

Tyler puts the clean mug down too hard. “Stop treating me like a freak,” he says, low and cold and hard. “I’m serious.”

Alaric speaks before Damon has a chance to. “No one’s treating you like a freak.” He shakes his head, matching Tyler’s tone, ramping it up a little. “Except maybe you. I didn’t know you needed food. You’re the only hybrid we know and other than the fact you act like Jeremy’s something you dragged in on your shoe, we don’t know you that well.”

Tyler freezes. “It’s not like that,” he says.

“Lame.” Damon rinses his mug. “He’s a good kid. You could do a lot worse. And you -”

“Owe him my life. And my sanity. You think I don’t know that?” Tyler paces. “A few years ago, I was normal. Just human. Playing sports. Messing around with girls. Dating Caroline, who is, by the way, hot. And now I’m a monster, and in love with Jeremy fucking Gilbert.”

Alaric raises an eyebrow. Tyler rubs his eyes. Damon, mercifully, looks smug, but shuts up.

“You want me to call my friends or not?”

Alaric nods. “Call them.”

 

**

 

There is a diner in town that does huge piles of bacon and eggs and plenty of coffee, cheap. Tyler’s friends agree to meet them all at nine. Jeremy emerges, yawning, in time to join them for the short four block walk. The rain is a fine mist, and smells like a midday thunderstorm is on its way – no later than two in the afternoon, anyway, but either way, it’s a problem; not for wolves, but for vampires. Reduces visibility. Smelling a wolf or two is one thing but with a bunch of them coming at you from every direction, sight helps, too.

Alaric shakes out his wrists, inexplicably sore, and debates suggesting a fresher meal. Relying on blood bags all the time has side effects. When they do it for weeks on end they tire more easily. Get aches and pains, need extra sleep, get irritable more often.

“Yep,” Damon says, low in his throat.

“Yep what?”

“We’re not doing this without a proper meal. Your rules, blah blah blah. But we both need blood. Fresh.” In front of them, Tyler twitches. “What about you?”

“Meat,” he disagrees, and Jeremy, a good four inches taller, grins, but oddly. Casts eyes over Damon and Alaric, and then forward again.

“Hey, Alaric. Have you…?” Shooting for nonchalant, and just barely missing.

“Three years, and not a casualty,” Alaric says, matching his tone. “Haven’t died, either, so I guess that means that me turning has actually decreased the overall death rate. I’m doin’ it for America.”

Jeremy relaxes almost imperceptibly.

The diner could be any diner in any small town in the nearest five states, naugahyde booths and menus flecked with bits of egg. A wall of touring maps starting to yellow in the sun. Terrible coffee, but at least it’s strong. The terrible clash of orange and brown on the walls. Too-old waitresses in too-tight dresses, despair writ large over their faces.

They have been nursing coffees and contemplating menus for ten minutes when Tyler tenses and stands. He nods curtly at the two young men approaching the booth. Holds a hand out to shake and tenses further when he is met by a round of very manly hugs.

Jeremy is more effusive, pleased to see old friends. “Jeff, Pete,” he says. “How you doin’?”

The two are less pleased to see Damon and Alaric, but they are polite. Ish.

“Jeff Rodham,” one says, a distinct sneer to his lip. Tall and dark-haired, with green eyes that catch and reflect too much light. His friend is blue-eyed and blond-haired, with a hulking frame that makes it impossible for him to let his arms rest at his sides. Jeff points a thumb at him. “Pete Murphy. You ordered?”

They do that, then, order piles of bacon and scrambled eggs and sausages. Damon and Alaric eat less than the others, having little real need of it.

Tyler takes the lead, explaining the problem. It’s Jeff who shakes his head.

“I get she’s someone you care about – but really, they snatch people every day. I’m sorry if it sounds heartless -”

Jeremy interrupts. “My sister. That’s my sister you’re talking about.”

Tyler stills him. “She’s the doppelgänger,” he says. “They’re trying to make more.” They don’t seem to understand, so Tyler explains the rest.

Alaric nudges Damon under the table. Jeff and Pete look genuinely worried and even Tyler looks hopeful. Alaric was right. Without balance, they are threatened. If the other pack gets bigger, they will be in trouble.

“I don’t see what you expect us to do.” Pete’s voice is a deep, rich bass. Threatening. Probably, when he says ‘pass the ketchup’ people fight over who gets to give it to him.

Damon moves to speak, and Alaric shuts him up with a hand on his knee.

“We need to talk to your Alpha,” Tyler says. “Convince him you guys need to take them on.”

Damon stills, and Alaric tenses as well. Admittedly, they hadn’t asked Tyler if he had a plan. Seems an oversight, now, since he clearly does. Quiet little fucker. Alaric’s plan, but this time, with the actually ‘plan’ part slightly better thought-out. Alaric had assumed there was no chance of allying themselves with the pack but with Tyler here, perhaps it was possible.

Pete and Jeff exchange an odd look. “You know he’s not a massive fan of bloodsuckers, right?”

“As a half-breed bloodsucker, that’s lame,” Damon says. He crosses his arms. “And insulting. We’re here to protect one girl. You have a whole pack to protect.” He leans back, cocks his head. “Worst comes to worst, we are prepared to lock her up somewhere safe until you all kill each other. What about you? Can you lock them up? Or yourselves?”

This is interesting.

Damon is usually a sledgehammer, but he can be the wind that shifts the dunes. Alaric stays quiet.

“A vampire can be still for a hundred years, and come out the other side. It’s not fun and we don’t like it, but we can do it. You? You need to run. You need space.”

He’s taking in what Tyler said the night before and spinning it into rhetoric.

“You can’t hide from the other pack. You can’t lock them up. And you can’t hide from yourselves, either. So if I have this right…” Damon narrows his eyes, raises his lip. “You can make your Alpha their Alpha. Maybe get out of this with a minimum of bloodshed. Bigger pack but with your Alpha in control… and he seems sort of badass… it might be manageable. If they get Elena? They’ll keep growing. And you are all gravy meat.”

Alaric chances a glimpse at Tyler, who actually looks sort of impressed.

“Excuse us,” says Pete, and he and Jeff walk away. A waitress takes the plates away.

“Not bad, Damon,” Tyler says.

“What’s your standing in the pack?” Damon wants to know.

“Outsider. No Influence.”

“Bullshit. They owe you. If you joined up, where would you fit? You’re no Alpha.”

“Fuck you.” Tyler cocks his chin.

“Not an insult. An observation. Quick.”

“Beta. Not far down the pecking order, I guess, though they’ve never seen me fight.”

Damon nods.

Jeff is nearing the table. “we’re gonna make a few calls. Don’t go far.”

 

**

 

Damon stalks and Alaric stands motionless. Calculating the arsenal in Damon’s car and wishing they had driven Alaric’s truck. Less speed but more space.

Not that it would help. They still have only two hands each and limited space to carry weapons on them, out there in the forest.

Jeremy seems calm, too calm, messing with his phone. Leaning lazy against the wall. Leaning towards Tyler from time to time to show him something on the small screen. Tyler is intense, focused. Energy to spare, but he looks at Jeremy’s phone every time.

“Those two are plotting something.” Alaric says it so quietly even Tyler won’t pick it up, but Damon does, shooting glances.

“Yep.” He continues to stalk. “What are you doing?” he calls, and Jeremy’s smile is too smooth.

“Dicking around on the ’net,” he says. “Just killin’ time.” He doesn’t even look up.

“That kid learned to lie from his sister.” Damon turns, paces in the other direction a while. “He’s not as good at it as she is.”

 

**

 

There are protocols, niceties. The Alpha agrees to meet in the forest, not far from where their strange arrangement of trailers is concealed from anything but the most thorough search.

The first thing Alaric thinks when he sees the man is that he is enormous. About three inches taller than Alaric and seemingly a foot wider across the shoulders. Built with so much muscle he looks like a caricature of himself. They have seen him before but not this close, not so close they can smell the earth on him, the rich blood that flows in his veins (enough to make Alaric hungry), smell of the wolf that is more him than the vampire is. It occurs to Alaric, then. The wolf is what he is. What they all are. The vampire is something that was done to them.

When he approaches he is not smiling, and Damon and Alaric tense. When he sees Tyler, his face cracks open. His eyes sparkle. He is far less scary, but still someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, or provoke.

“Jeremy not with you?”

Tyler shakes his head. “Don’t want him caught in the crossfire. Just me and the bloodsuckers.” He says it joking, light. “Damon Salvatore and Alaric Saltzman.”

Hands are clasped, a little firmer than necessary. Displays of strength and willing.

“Mitchell Grant. Call me Mitch.” He’s not born and bred Tennessee, comes from somewhere further south. There is a little bayou in the accent.

Mitchell has heard the story from Jeff and Pete, who hover in the background, but etiquette dictates they must repeat the whole story to Mitch themselves. Damon takes the lead, as he is obviously older, and Mitch has deferred to him quickly. Alaric supposes the sense of hierarchy is something they must apply to everything.

As Damon speaks, Alaric watches Mitchell, watches Tyler and Pete and Jeff. They take small steps to the side, and twitch, and tug at their own clothing. Tyler runs his hand over his hair all too often.

Wolves, and by extension hybrids, seem always in motion. Not like Damon’s frantic energy, which can be tamed when he needs to be neat and controlled. Tyler was right, what he said, they are animals. All people are animals but the werewolves are a little closer to the earth than humans and certainly vampires are. They don’t just want to live here, closer to the raw earth. It seems to sustain them.

Not for the first time, Alaric wonders what it might be like, to run and just keep running like that, huge strides eating up the miles.

He sets the thought aside. Tyler checks his phone, in his pocket, just barely smiling.

“So you see you have a problem. And we do too. If they had been a little less sloppy we would have lost a friend and you’d be dealing with a much bigger pack. What are you going to do about it?” Damon’s voice holds a mild challenge.

Mitchell considers. He doesn’t look particularly inclined to get involved, though he has to be worried. Tyler takes a cautious step forward. “Could I have a moment?”

Mitchell leads him out of earshot, and it is out of earshot. Listening hard, not breathing, Alaric can hear nothing. From the look on Damon’s face he can’t, either.

They really need a good meal.

Tyler and Mitchell come back and both look better. Confident.

Mitchell nods. “We’ll fight. I’ll take down their Alpha. Will you fight alongside us?”

“Brought our favorite weapons and everything.” Alaric smiles. “Weird question. You got any idea what a hybrid bite does to a vampire?”

Mitchell looks stumped. “Werewolf bite’ll kill you,” he starts, and Damon flinches. He runs a hand unconsciously over the place on his arm where he carries an almost invisible scar from the time Tyler bit him. Tyler can’t stop himself, he looks as well. A prickle of guilt flushing his features.

“We’ve seen that. Skip it. You’re vampires too, now. Might mean you’d be poisonous to each other as well. Or maybe not at all, including to us.”

“We’re not poisonous to each other. But you? No idea, friend. Be back here before the sun sets with that arsenal of yours. We time it right, we’ll find them…” He gestures to Pete, who produces a map, spreads it on the ground. They all crouch to look. “About here. Good spot.” Tyler takes a photograph with his phone.

“How will we know which wolves are you guys and which are them?” Alaric asks. He doubts either pack wears helpful ID bracelets or a collar with a bell.

Mitchell blinks. He knows his pack well and can’t imagine anyone else would have trouble distinguishing them. The animal way, Alaric supposes.

“We heal fast but you heal faster,” Damon says. “We won’t aim to wound. We’ll aim to kill.”

Mitchell considers, and nods. “Anyone who goes for you is fair game. I’ll makes sure my pack knows your scent before we go in. That should keep them from trying to attack you. But pay attention. Because once we change, we _are_ animals. Most of us remember our transformations, some more than others, but no one has much control over their actions. And don’t you dare kill their so-called Alpha or this will never end. Anyone comes at me while I’m doing it, take ’em down.”

 

**

 

The drive back to the motel is quiet. Alaric watches Tyler watch the world go by in the back seat. “Jeremy’s cool with not coming with us?”

“He’s not interested in fighting,” Tyler says, “and I’m not interested in seeing him get eaten.”

Alaric has trouble believing this; Jeremy had always been very keen to fight, given the opportunity. “He still wears his ring?”

“Yep. Only died the once, though.”

Damon flinches. “I never got around to apologizing about that.”

Alaric snorts. Parks the car and says goodbye to Tyler at the top of the stairs, and unlocks the door.

No sooner are he and Damon through it than Damon has tricky, lithe fingers all over Alaric’s body. Damon crushes Alaric’s lips with his own, tugs at his belt, unbuckling it with a practiced move. Alaric pulls Damon’s shirt over his head and drops it, returning to clutch at Damon’s pale torso with his big hands. They don’t speak. They just tear at each other’s clothes until they are beautifully, perfectly naked, and Damon pushes Alaric down onto the bed.

Their legs tangle as they grab at each other, rock against each other, kiss hard, bruising. They breathe hard too, and Alaric is never sure why, but sex always does that, makes them breathe hard; the memory, perhaps, of what it was like to do this while human.

Still they don’t speak, or at least, not with words.

Damon bites into Alaric’s lower lip and sucks until the wound heals. Somehow he finds space between their bodies enough to lube up and he takes Alaric hard, with almost no warning or preparation, and Alaric clumps strong muscles down, fucking back hard against Damon’s fantastic cock, moving suddenly to hook his legs over Damon’s shoulders so Damon is so far inside him, so deep, that nothing bad can happen to either of them, ever.

Damon’s rhythm is brutal, perfect, and his hand on Alaric’s cock, stroking hard, just perfect. They come together, out of habit and because they love the way the shudders take them both away, so ferocious. It is over too quickly, but it was medicine, what they needed.

Damon withdraws, and climbs onto the bed beside Alaric.

“I’m not keen on dying,” he says. “But just in case…”

“Yeah, me too,” Alaric says. “Me too.”

They kiss some more, just gentle. Swapping touch for touch. “We have to go,” Damon says. Alaric’s eyes flick to the window.

“Still a few hours,” he says.

“We need to eat. Something fresh.”

They shower quickly, dress to look attractive, safe. Damon wears a t-shirt just a little too small, and Alaric bites back a groan. Wants him naked again. Damon only grins with one side of his face, a promise for later.

If they live.

“Should we get Tyler?”

“He’s probably snacking on Jeremy. Let him take care of himself.”

This shouldn’t sound fine, but it does. Besides, it sounds like he needs more meat than blood.

It’s about two in the afternoon and there are people leaving the diner in twos and threes. Damon steps smoothly in front of a couple in their twenties – Damon always drinks from pretty people, when he has a choice – and smiles widely at them.

“Be calm. We’re old friends. Remember us?”

The couple nod. “Been a while,” the man says, eyes wide and flat, offering a hand to shake. Amused, Damon shakes it.

“We need somewhere private,” Damon says. “Care to come to our motel room?”

Alaric knows this is necessary but he doesn’t much like drinking directly from the source. It’s better nutrition, plasma not removed, but it just. Tastes. So. Fucking. Good.

There’s the immediacy of it; the softer flavors borrowed from whatever they last ate. The pulse, _drink_ me _drink_ me _drink_ me, the blood that seems to want to be drawn. There’s the feeling of warm flesh beneath his lips, reminding him of what has been lost (and it is a loss – there are days when Alaric misses being human, though the compensations are more than adequate).

As Alaric drinks from the woman’s wrist, Damon’s eyes flick over him. Ever cautious. Alaric can control himself, _does_ control himself. Drinks a perfectly measured pint when he must. But he is grateful for Damon’s caution.

The problem is that he never _wants_ to stop.

Alaric pulls away, licking up the blood that still seeps slowly from the wound. Damon stops at the same time. Alaric cuts his finger on a fang and puts it in the girl’s mouth. “Just a little,” he says. With a surprised look in her eye she sucks, briefly, and Alaric watches her wrist knit shut. Damon does the same.

“You alright?” Alaric asks the girl.

“Fine,” she says, looking confused. “I feel… good.” She makes an odd lunge as if to kiss Alaric, and he smiles, pulling away.

“Forget this happened as soon as you’re out of here,” he says, to the girl, and to her boyfriend. Damon sends them away holding hands and looking like they want to do a whole lot more than that.

Alaric feels better already, the mild ache in his wrists and hips gone. He feels stronger. Licks his lips, catches a trickle of blood he missed. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, the terrible, wonderful fog. Damon smirks.

“Feeling better?”

“Wish I could handle doing that all the time,” Alaric admits. Damon shrugs. He’d rather they did this all the time too but Alaric doesn’t want his unlife to be about violence. Doesn’t want to just shrug, one day, say _fuck it_ and find suddenly that he has a dead human in his arms. He tries to conjure Elena and Jeremy’s faces, sometimes, imagine it could be one of them he hurt. It helps.

Damon rarely argues about it, these days. Not worth it. Certainly not now. Not with a bad night of fighting ahead of them. It’s starting to rain again, getting slowly harder.

It would be better if it wasn’t raining. It really would.

Ridiculous as it is, Damon and Alaric have purchased Kevlar riding gear. They don’t know for sure that it is too tough for a werewolf to bite through but they figure any advantage is worth it. It’s a little cumbersome, because of the way the plating sits inside the clothing, but it is not overly heavy.

“We should get motorbikes,” Damon says, zipping up the jacket. Admiring the way the reinforced panels make his shoulders look broader. “We look hot. Like, _hot_.”

“No room for weapons.”

“You have a one track mind,” Damon says. “Come on. We have to go get sniffed by the puppies.”

Tyler knocks on the door, and Damon opens it. “Ready?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s Jeremy doing?”

“Watching television.” From down the way, Alaric hears the soft sounds of people talking on a screen.

“We should say goodbye.”

“Nah. Let’s just go,” Tyler says, so they do.

 

**

 

It’s a distinctly odd feeling having twenty-odd men and women sniff at him and Damon, though Damon mostly looks amused. Mitchell approaches them with handfuls of fur. “Stick this in your pockets,” he says. “You’ll smell like me. I can’t guarantee nothin’, but this helps.”

Damon looks less amused than appalled, but they comply. “I suppose this will make us smell all the more tasty to the other pack,” he complains.

Damon and Alaric study the map while everyone else strips off their clothes. Damon can’t help but look. “Guess being a werewolf is good cardio,” he muses. True enough, every member of the pack is lean and strong, though they range from slim and powerful to bulky. “Hey, wonder what Lockwood’s packing in the trunk?”

“Pervert,” Alaric grins. He settles his crossbow better on his shoulder. The dart gun full of wolfsbane, though they won’t use this if they don’t have too – pretty dangerous in close combat like this, if it went astray – he tucks into a makeshift holster on his hip. The other hip is adorned with a machete. Damon is similarly attired. Though he doesn’t favor the crossbow, it is helpful to have a spare.

“Let’s aim not to get bitten,” Damon says, laying his hand on the small of Alaric’s back. Leaning for a quick kiss.

There is an odd rushing sound as the group starts to change. This, Alaric watches. It still seems more like magic than anything else they have encountered, the impossibility of bones changing form. Amazing. Hair growing, nails elongating to vicious claws, incredible. That a hundred-pound girl can become a wolf almost twice her weight, amazing.

The sun is close to setting, and the sky is a rich honeyed grey.

Alaric tries hard to memorize colors and patterns in fur, as he and Damon begin a gentle jog to bring up the rear. There is some snarling, but there seems to be a general recognition that they belong. A wolf Alaric recognizes as Tyler pads towards them, some instinct sending him there.

Alaric can’t help it; following an odd instinct, he ruffles the fur on the back of Tyler’s neck as they jog. Damon tenses; those are the jaws that closed over Damon’s own arm just a few years ago, but while Tyler’s muscles are huge and taut beneath the flesh and fur, he stays docile a moment before taking off to join the pack.

Alaric feels an odd stirring, some affection. He supposes Tyler is family, now, in a way.

A gentle jog becomes a run. Wonderful. The rain is heavier, now, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Visibility is tough, and the forest is thick in places, but the feeling of running with these wolves is amazing.

They’ve been running maybe an hour and every muscle in Alaric’s body is screaming when they hear a none-too distant howl. Alaric draws his crossbow across to the front of his body. Tearing the heart out of a hybrid is always fun but keeping their distance is better. There is a vicious snarl and from somewhere at the front of the pack the distinct sound of two huge bodies colliding. Damon pulls his own machete, and they skirt the edges until a huge, furred body leaps at them.

Alaric’s arrow misses, but not by much, and Damon aims the machete perfectly, removing the head. By the time the head hits the ground, it is the head of a man, and the body of a man hits the ground alongside it.

“Can’t see a fucking thing,” Alaric says, whirling as another wolf comes at them.

It exposes its torso for long enough for Alaric to aim right. Straight through the heart. A woman, and that shouldn’t matter, but Alaric flinches when her body hits the ground. He pauses to retrieve the two arrows, aiming a worried look at the snarling, fighting pack.

There is a strangled sound and a heavy thud. Alaric turns to find Damon on the ground, a wolf atop him, pushing hard against its throat, its huge jaws snapping at him.

Alaric hurls himself, hard, at the wolf’s side, and it is surprised enough that it is effectively thrown from Damon’s body. Alaric is on top of it, wrestling almost, insensible. Barely remembering to stay clear of the mouth. The wolf is trying to get free, reaching with its powerful jaws to snap at any exposed flesh it can get at. Alaric hears a terrible snap and a yowl of pain and realizes he has broken both of its front legs. Werewolf bones have incredible tensile strength, and he can’t help but feel a little proud. A sick horror chases the pride away.

 _Don’t injure what you can’t kill_ , Alaric hears his father say. He hunted with his father a few times as a boy, and knows that a wounded animal is more dangerous, not less. Alaric slips a hand holding an arrow between the hybrid’s jaws. Easy enough to snap but for the angle, and it gives Alaric the time he needs to punch up beneath the ribcage. He feels the heart of the squirming, terrified, angry creature beat once in his hand before he tears it out.

And beneath him, then, is a man. A big man, his jaws forced open and broken by the arrow in his mouth. Alaric pauses, as Damon staggers to his feet and takes his arm. Damon tenses, then and calls out: “Ric!”

Alaric turns to see another wolf; this one smart enough to be protecting its organs, Alaric raises the machete –

And the wolf is shot through the eye with a crossbow. It falls back, screaming a horrible half-human scream, and appears to be trying to change back to human – a man – and if he can pull the arrow out, he’ll be fine. Alaric takes his head off with one perfectly aimed machete blow and it rolls to the ground, the hand and wrist hanging obscenely from the end of the arrow.

“Nice shot,” Alaric says. Damon crouches, pulls Alaric down.

“Depends who they were aiming for.” He turns. They can’t afford not to be paying attention. They really can’t, not while the hybrids from the other pack seem generally more interested in fighting them than in fighting their pack, and that's a weird thought, _their pack_ , but it feels right, too. Still the mystery shooter needs to be located.

“That wasn’t you?”

Damon squints into the trees. “No.”

Alaric groans. “Fuckin’ Jeremy Gilbert. Tyler must have sent him out here ahead of us. Little shit.”

“Can Jeremy shoot like that?”

“I taught him,” Alaric says, and that’s enough; truth is Alaric wouldn’t bet against Jeremy with a crossbow in his hands. “He’d better be up a tree and out of sight.”

They turn back to the fighting, and it has changed.

The rain is starting to let up, which is good, but it is still heavy enough to make it hard to see much. The packs have separated around a space in the middle and Mitchell and the other ‘Alpha’ are circling each other, snarling. Teeth exposed and haunches raised.

They step forward and away again, preparing for a final showdown. From one side, a member of the other pack tries to make a play but the second his underbelly is exposed, he is shot through the heart.

“I take it he’s keeping his training up,” Damon says. “Nice.”

Alaric feels sick, but figures if he can’t work out where Jeremy’s shooting from, no one else will be able to spot him, either. Besides, they are all quite occupied with the main event.

Damon and Alaric remain alert, trying to count wolf bodies and dead humans, when with a flurry of fur and a powerful thud the fight starts in earnest. The rain gets heavier again, making it hard to see what is going on, but the outcome seems clear, right from the first bite.

The fight goes on for maybe ten minutes, maybe longer, both Alphas yelping when a bite meets its mark. Occasionally someone from the other pack gets excited and tries to jump in, but each time, they are subdued, or killed. A huge black wolf turns suddenly pink and nude. Alaric can’t look at this.

And then it is over.

Mitchell tosses the heart of the other Alpha into the air and catches it fully in his jaws, biting and swallowing until it is gone. The man lies dead on the ground, his chest a ruined cavern, bright white and bloody when lightening illuminates the air.

The defeated pack lets up a howl, and it is a sound so heartbreaking that Alaric has to turn away from it. Damon catches his wrist. For comfort, and as an affirmation. They are alive, and the battle is won, and Elena is safe. Alaric catches Damon’s eyes, brighter than ever peering from a blood splattered face and grins, though it feels wrong to do so.

“We’ve made friends with the pups,” Damon muses. “Sort of obscene. Next time there’s a turf war in Mystic Falls, think they’ll come and help?”

Alaric looks to the three dead bodies on the ground near where they stand, and listens to the howls. Wonders how many lives were lost this night, under the rain.

With some effort, Tyler changes back and limps towards them. Not particularly dignified, this, nude and splattered with blood and mud. He falls to his knees and Alaric crosses fifty feet of littered forest floor to help him.

He shakes his head. “I’m hurt,” he admits. “Not bad. I’ll heal fast. Need…”

“Ty!”

Jeremy is running from the trees in black clothing and with his face painted so all they can see is his eyes.

Alaric grimaces. “If you’d died… No, fuck that, if you’d been _hurt_ …”

“What, you’d kill me?” Jeremy has a rucksack over his shoulder, hands Tyler sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. Tyler pulls them on, wincing. Not self-conscious; Alaric supposes nudity stops being weird when you’ve been running with a pack for a while.

“No. _Elena_ would kill _me_ ,” Alaric disagrees. “Thanks. Amazing shooting, Jer.” Even Damon gives an approving half nod.

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about competing but RISD isn’t big on shooting events.” Jeremy laughs, producing socks and sneakers.

The wolves from the other pack lie on the ground, submissive, mournful. Grieving.

Alaric watches them, a little awed. “What happens now, Tyler?”

Tyler has given up halfway through getting his shoes on. Jeremy crouches at his side and offers up his wrist.

Alaric turns away. The intimacy of this is too achingly family, the trust too sweet. Even Damon averts his eyes, crossing his arms and giving Alaric and oddly fond, possessive look.

“What?” But Alaric knows, so he smiles back.

“Just remembering when I had my own vending machine,” Damon says quietly, and their shoulders bump.

When Alaric looks back again, Jeremy is watching his wrist knit shut and pulling his hood over his head. Tyler is climbing shakily to his feet. They are laughing quietly. Alaric hears the word ‘bad-ass’ and isn’t sure who says it, only thinks that Tyler looks more relaxed than they’ve seen him these two days. Jeremy puts out a steadying hand and Tyler doesn’t even shake it off, lets himself be steadied.

Jeremy hoists the rucksack, weapons stowed, over his shoulder.

“They’ll stay here until the sun comes up. Vigil over the dead.” Tyler swallows. “Tomorrow everyone will leave, get cleaned up, come back to bury the bodies.”

“Do we…” Damon looks hopeful.

“We’ll always be tied to the pack, now. Yes, you two as well. Jeremy, even. But we’re not part of it. We should go. Mitch’ll call tomorrow afternoon, probably,” Tyler says.

With Jeremy there they can’t move as quickly but he parked Tyler’s SUV about an hour’s walk away, in another direction, so it wouldn’t be stumbled upon, so there’s not as far to go.

When they get back to the hotel, surreally, it is barely after ten. They stagger into their separate rooms to clean blood and mud from their bodies. Alaric is exhausted, but in the shower, with hot water running over their bodies, he lets Damon run fingers all over him, bring him home for a while. They wash each other slowly, precisely, the water running pink with blood and brown with mud until it runs clear at last.

“You pushed that wolf off me,” Damon purrs.

Alaric chuckles. “Yep.” Damon scrubs Alaric’s back, running exploratory fingers over the knobs of his spine, pressing him against the cool tile of the shower. Damon runs his hands over Alaric’s ass, too, but it’s not a prelude to anything. Just a quick hello, and thanks for being awesome.

“It was a near thing. They’re… strong.” Damon’s lips find Alaric’s shoulder a moment, warm water a neat slick between their bodies.

Alaric nods, turning towards Damon again, rinsing off. “Four legs. Low centre of gravity. Means they can build up that momentum for running, leap a lot higher, even with legs that…” Damon takes Alaric’s bottom lip between his teeth, tugging in earnest, until he stops.

“Talk science some more. That shit is hot.”

Alaric drops a kiss on the crook of Damon’s neck and shoulder, steps out of the shower and dries off, tying a towel around his waist. He microwaves mugs of blood and hands one to Damon when Damon comes out of the bathroom similarly attired.

With little desire to surround themselves with other people, they each drink a significant amount of bourbon and make out messily on the couch before moving the action to the bed, fucking furiously until they are finally sated and the sun begins to turn the air a soft pink-grey hue.

 

**

 

Damon and Alaric wake with bodies tangled in bed sheets that the previous night’s exertions had stripped from the mattress. Damon’s soft hair lies against Alaric’s lips. Alaric lies for a long time, quite silent, not even breathing, as he has no pressing need to speak, and feels oddly peaceful as is. The sun streams in the window. He and Damon have slept longer than they generally do. Needed it, Alaric supposes.

“I feel quite noble,” Damon says, without moving. Alaric hadn’t known he was awake.

“You said that about twenty times last night.”

“Saved Elena’s life again. Think I’ll get a crack at her now?”

“Depends who the new boyfriend is, I suppose. But if you get a crack, so do I.” Alaric runs the back of his knuckles over Damon’s ribs, smiling to himself, because he knows Damon’s not going anywhere. Never been equal in a relationship before. It’s the reason he can joke like this.

“Damn,” Damon says. They are silent a good long while, and Alaric lets himself breathe, enjoys it. The air still smells and tastes like pheromones, though unfortunately, the clothes they were wearing the night before smell less pleasant. “We were badass.”

“We’re always badass.”

“I meant the fighting.”

“I know what you meant.”

Now the fighting is done Damon is impatient to leave, but Tyler says no; niceties, etiquette, stuff Damon doesn’t care much for. Like a straggling end of yarn on a knit sweater. He just wants to cut it off and go find something else to do. Still they mooch around the town for the day. Eat dinner and drink heavily with Tyler and Jeremy. Alaric pretends he has forgotten Jeremy doesn’t turn twenty-one for another few months. Doesn’t flinch when Jeremy produces ID that declares him to be of legal drinking age and also named Trevor. This is surprisingly easy to do.

In the bar Jeremy and Tyler sit closer than they did, before. Tyler is relaxed, laughing. They eat ridiculous junk, hot dogs made from Meat™ and onion rings and fries and Damon and Alaric snack on a couple of young guys who have breezed into town for the weekend. As always Damon is watchful, and they send them away healthy, and a little turned on. Side effect of the blood. Alaric can’t help but wonder I they have an interesting night ahead of them, but finds he doesn’t much care either way. Just needs to be a little more well, needs to heal more thoroughly from the fighting.

When he and Damon get back to the booth Tyler is gone; on the phone, Jeremy tells them, so Damon coaxes quarters from the bartender and tortures the jukebox while Alaric talks to Jeremy.

Alaric isn’t a parent. Alaric is barely an adult, no matter what his birth certificate says. Never planned to adopt a pair of broken teenagers, and though he did his best, while they were still under his care, there is a part of him that wishes there was someone better suited to these painful and necessary father-son chats.

“All going okay?”

Jeremy grins. “Mostly.”

“Need to talk about it?”

“ _He_ needs to talk about it. I’m cool.”

Alaric shifts uncomfortably. “Don’t know if I can really talk to _him_.” Wasn’t it yesterday, Alaric was telling himself someone had to do it?

“Whatever you and Damon said the other day sunk in a bit. Look, you’re not gonna tell Elena about…?”

“You jumping headfirst into a fight you had no business being a part of? No,” Alaric says. “She’d stake me and then Damon. She’d stake us in the gut, so she could pull them out and do it a second time.”

Jeremy dips a fry into the ketchup.

“Nice shooting, by the way. I know I said that before. But. Nice shooting.”

“Had a good teacher.” Jeremy grins and sips at his beer. “He’ll get over himself,” Jeremy says. “He loves me. I know it might not look like that to you, but he does. And I can handle him. It’ll be fine, or it won’t. Whatever.”

“You’re okay with that?”

Jeremy shrugs. “Nothing comes with guarantees, Ric,” he says, and sounds more adult than he should have to. “Not you guys either.”

From where Alaric sits he sees the door open, and Tyler come inside.

“They want to meet us. Here. Tomorrow. At two. Is that…?”

Jeremy nods once, quickly, Damon comes back to the table and they drink until the bar closes.

 

**

 

Alaric is messing on the net when he hears, from a distance, Elena’s shriek as Jeremy crushes her in a bear hug, his answering chuckle. Downstairs in the car park. Damon emerges from the bathroom, looking furious.

“Is that Elena?”

Alaric nods. “Put some clothes on.”

“I look better naked.”

“Put some clothes on, Damon,” and Alaric opens the door to the motel room while Damon rolls his eyes, dressing quickly. It’s raining again, though not hard.

Elena’s eyes catch Alaric’s quickly, and she smiles, waves. Behind her, someone is pulling bags out of the back of a taxi. “Hi, Ric! We flew in on the red eye, caught the bus from Memphis this morning.”

“Words can’t express how badly I wish you weren’t here,” Alaric says, pasting ‘parent’ over his features. “What time is the bus back?”

“Good to see you too,” she smiles. She reaches to take a bag from Matt Donovan.

Matt Donovan?

Damon, dressed, leans his chest into Alaric’s back, rests his chin on Alaric’s shoulder. “Is that…?”

“I suspect it’s the mystery boyfriend.”

“Childhood sweethearts are so cliché,” Damon says. “Donovan.” Matt is at the top of the stairs, with a cautious smile on his face.

“Hey, Damon. Hey, Mr. Saltz-Ric.” He nods. “Can I dump these in there?”

Damon pushes the door open. Somehow he has managed to rearrange the bed so it is at least somewhat tidy. Nice. More adult and less sex-crazed.

Elena throws her arms around Alaric, who kisses her hair, and then Damon, who says she smells like dessert. She makes a face.

Alaric makes faces too. At Elena, at Jeremy, at Tyler. Elena sighs.

“Matt and I are starving. Let’s go to that bar now, get something to eat, and talk.”

“You are not going to that meeting, Elena,” Damon insists, and Alaric is grateful they agree on this.

“Yes, I am.” She hoists her handbag up on her shoulder and reaches for Matt’s hand. “It’s what I came for. My agreement to negotiate is what got you in the door with Tyler’s pack.” Matt gives a proud grin, and everyone starts to descend the concrete steps. “Come on, guys, we’re starving. And it’s raining.”

“Are you wearing vervain?”

“Of course I am,” Elena says, dripping scorn; “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Damon and Alaric exchange a significant glance, but they follow.

 

**

 

“I can’t go through life wondering about who might try to attack me,” Elena says, sitting in what has strangely come to feel like their regular booth in the bar. “So we’re striking a deal with Tyler’s pack. I’ve been texting back and forth with Tyler and Jer for days.”

Tyler and Jeremy wear matching smiles. Matt loops a lazy arm across Elena’s shoulders. Even he looks relaxed.

“You’re not our dads, guys. We’re capable of working _some_ stuff out for ourselves.” Jeremy sounds sort of resolved, sort of pleased with himself for pulling this off at all.

Damon continues to glare.

Jeremy actually has the gall to laugh. “Seriously. Your plan before we got here was to bait two groups of hybrids into killing each other. Ty turned it into a negotiation. You refused to let me help and I saved your asses.” Elena rolls her eyes, at this, clearly hadn’t believed Jeremy had stayed out of it.

Damon narrows his eyes further if that is possible and starts to splutter.

“You’re looking at this all wrong,” Elena says. “Don’t you get it? You guys sort of taught us how to do this stuff.” She shrugs, smiling, and picks at the onion rings which have just been delivered. “Take the compliment.”

Alaric stills, opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again.

Was it true? Had his bumbling and oftentimes failed good intentions and Damon’s tendency to over-plot and subvert actually somehow met their happy medium in the Mystic Falls Scooby Squad?

“What do you have to negotiate with?” Damon wants to know.

“My blood. They can have a little, on a case by case basis, to make more hybrids, if they keep the other pack integrated and in control. If they can’t or won’t – or if anyone from the pack tries to take me – no more doppelgänger blood. If I have to, I’ll change.”

Alaric wants to fly off the handle at this but he won’t. It’s the realization that Elena, Tyler and Jeremy worked this plan out together, with no help, and without the need to seek the permission they must have known they wouldn’t get. That they did it at least in part to help Damon and Alaric, keep them safe out there. That they’re not kids anymore, maybe haven’t been in a while. All of these things have him a little unsettled, a little awed. Maybe even a little proud. There was a time the thought of keeping Jeremy and Elena – fuck, Jeremy _or_ Elena – alive for long enough to get out of Mystic Falls seem far-fetched.

Mitchell, a woman they have not met yet and Jeff and Pete all approach the booth. Everyone rises to their feet, and hurried introductions are made.

It occurs to Alaric that Jeremy and Matt should be scared, the only pure humans in the room and neither with anything to offer, but neither does. Trusting the people around them to keep them safe.

“Just me and the young lady,” Mitchell says. “If that’s alright with her.”

Damon is about to protest, but Alaric puts a hand on his lower back, staying him. Elena and Mitchell find a table for two near the jukebox and speak in low voices.

Watching, Damon jiggles his knee like he wants to cross the room and jump in. Tyler and Jeremy speak quietly and Matt watches the proceedings more like a guy who likes to stare at his pretty girlfriend would than one who was worried about her safety.

Everyone with supernaturally enhanced hearing listens. Alaric’s heart flips. She sounds so sensible, reasonable. No matter what she is saying, she didn’t get that from him or Damon.

Right?

Right.

Half an hour later, Elena and Mitchell stand and shake hands. Mitchell looks a little enchanted when Elena leans in for a hug. She looks so tiny, though she is strong and lithe and muscular. Tough.

Maybe they gave her that, inasmuch as it could be given. She earned it, mostly.

Mitchell drifts to the bar where Pete, Jeff and the woman are drinking. Elena sits alongside Matt, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “In about another half an hour, this place is going to be crawling with hybrids. They’re having the wake here.”

“Both packs?” Jeremy asks.

“It’s one pack now. No one’s allowed to try to start anything with any of us, including Damon and Alaric. I think we should stay, show willing, you know?” Elena flutters her eyelashes at Damon and Alaric. “Play nice?”

 

 

**

 

 

They stay, show willing. There is more singing than Alaric generally likes to see (though it is a wake, so whatever) and a degree of glaring (and well, they did kill some of these people’s friends) but it seems to settle as the afternoon wears on. At one point he glances to the corner where Jeremy and Tyler are up on stools, and is gratified to catch Tyler aim a glancing kiss at Jeremy’s mouth, without running away afterwards.

One last night in the motel. In the morning everyone says goodbye and Damon and Alaric drive Matt and Elena to Memphis. Before they say goodbye, Elena says “Hey – we sold the house.”

Alaric nods. “That was quick.”

“They gave us asking price. Didn’t negotiate. Some investment firm.” Elena shrugs. “I’ll be in Mystic with Jer in a month or so to sign papers and get the last of the stuff out.”

She hugs them goodbye, and she and Matt disappear into the busy airport.

“Damon?”

“Yep?”

“Did we buy Elena’s house?”

“Yep.” Damon smirks, climbing into the car. “We’re gonna rent it out. Figure I’ll give it back to her as a wedding present, one day.”

Alaric chuckles. “You’re going soft.”

“I. Am. Rock. Hard.”

They drive the long way back to Mystic Falls, which is still not a long drive. They speak little.

Alaric can’t be sure of Damon’s thoughts, but he’s quietly hoping for another chance to run with the pack one night. Absorb the forest into his skin, smell the musky scents. Maybe in the summer, when the earth smells lush and ripe. Long legs eating up the ground.

There’s plenty of time, years spreading ahead of them like a map not yet fully unfolded.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Supernatural_ Godzilla versus Mothra reference is about Episode 4.10, _Heaven and Hell_. In the words of Sam Winchester: When you've got Godzilla and Mothra on your ass, best to get out of the way and let them fight.
> 
> Kudos to Saltzatore for the conversation we had about whether a hybrid bite would be lethal or not! *fangirls unite*


	5. 2016 - A Civil War tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon Salvatore and Ed Saltzman have a conversation about the Civil War.

Ed wakes, a little. Not all the way. The pain that has become a constant companion resettles into his bones and he wonders, again, how he’s lived this long, how Dianne has; and then he remembers.

She’s gone. Been gone a whole day. His raison d’être.

Tears fill his eyes. Ed hopes more than anything that the end is close for him too.

The smells in the room are all wrong. Chemical. The blanket is heavy but not thick enough. Through his eyelids, which seem thinner every year, like the wide world can get in no matter how hard he tries to shut it out, the light is harsh. Fluorescent. The light, the heavy cotton blanket, the smell: means Hospital.

Tears fill Ed’s eyes, then, and he tries to recall the details.

They’d found Dianne dead yesterday morning, cold in her bed with her eyes a little open and a soft smile on her face which had made her look like the girl she’d been, in the secretarial pool at Harvard, the day Edward Saltzman had first laid eyes on her and decided _that’s the girl for me_. Though her hair was a brilliant white, now, where once it had been yellow as the sun. Her skin which had once brought to mind a white peach, supple and soft, was like parchment.

And then what? There had been a terrible sound, that Ed had quickly realized was coming from his own throat. He was on the ground, suddenly. Legs unable to hold him up. Natasha, the nurse, had rolled him onto his side, her efficient hands soothing him, reminding him Dianne was in a better place now, though it’s not something Ed believed. Or perhaps he did. As Dianne got sicker she was so distressed, sometimes, unable to recognize him or respond; perhaps the eternal, dreamless sleep _was_ the better place.

Ed had sort of hoped he wouldn’t wake up himself, there on the ground.

He is awake now. He stretches, a little, and hears a voice. A rich jazz voice.

“Hello, Ed,” the voice says. It takes a moment to place it. Alaric’s Damon, that’s who that voice belongs to. Ed opens his eyes, blinking against the bright light.

He covers his eyes with the back of his hand and a few moments later, after an odd buzz, the room seems darker. When Ed opens his eyes again Damon is in the middle of the room, standing on a chair. He has removed the fluorescent bulb from its fitting. Only soft light filters through from the corridor.

“Better?”

Ed nods. “Thank you, son. Where’s Alaric?”

Damon rolls the long bulb under the bed, and takes a few steps closer.

“You remember what happened yesterday?”

Damon’s expression is confusing. Caring, but nervous. He looks like he’d prefer to be almost anywhere but where he is. He’s here, though. He’s here because Alaric doesn’t want his father to wake up in an empty room.

“The love of my life died, yesterday,” he says. “I’m not going to forget that.”

Damon nods. Chastised. He stands awkwardly, and too still. “Do you need a nurse or something?”

Ed shakes his head. “No, no.”

Damon sits on the chair by the bed. His eyes never leave Ed’s.

Ed always knew and he thinks maybe Dianne always did too. That Alaric was bisexual or what have you. As a boy he had these passionate friendships with other boys, so wrapped up in each other. His best friend growing up had been all the way, whatever you call it these days, _gay_ , Ed supposes; Ben Alder, that was his name. But Alaric kept bringing girlfriends home and though it surprised them, it never bothered them either way.

The first time Ed caught Alaric kissing another boy he was sixteen and they looked oddly right like that, so right that Ed was shocked when Alaric seemed embarrassed and ashamed. Trying to explain. Ed had shushed him. As long as he didn’t get beaten up for it Ed didn’t care who Alaric kissed.

Alaric had always been a little strange to Ed and Dianne – they were in their forties when he was born, too old for a child. When Dianne had fallen pregnant they’d talked about giving the child up. Dianne always thought it just wasn’t in God’s plan for them (though Ed had never believed in God, or any sort of plan) when she didn’t fall pregnant in her twenties, or her thirties. But when Alaric was born, one half Dianne and one half Ed, they had quite simply fallen in love with him and there wasn’t ever a question of letting him go.

Dianne had a passion for history and when she suggested Alaric as a name, for the King of the Visigoths, she’d looked so entranced that Ed hadn’t had the heart to say _well, love, they might pick on him in school with a name like that_ , he’d just nodded yes and told the nurse. Alaric. A glorious suntanned whippet at ten, handsome and tall at eighteen, just so _young_ they couldn’t ever seem to get a handle on him.

He’d always been different, defending beaten dogs from older bullies, or little girls from getting their ponytails pulled. Collecting strange objects, broken parts of toys, rocks he liked the look of. As a child Ed would find Alaric reading with a torch under the bedcovers and it wouldn’t be comic books, it would be his mother’s history textbooks, kept since she was in school.

Ed had been so gratified he’d bought new textbooks and kick-started Alaric’s career in history, though he’d mourned the fact his son’s talent for physics had gone wanting.

Ed loses a long moment to these recollections when realizes Damon is speaking. “We didn’t think you’d wake up this soon and…” he looks vaguely guilty. “Alaric had to make arrangements.”

Oh, the funeral. Of course, a funeral, soon. Hopefully two. Ed wonders if he should tell Damon to tell Alaric to make arrangements for two funerals because he knows, in the way you sometimes do, that he’s not long for this world.

He’s not afraid. He’ll go smiling, like Dianne.

Ed nods.

“Can I tell you something, Ed?” Damon may have the palest eyes Ed has ever seen, and the most expressive eyebrows. His features are perturbed right now.

“Shoot.”

“I don’t really know any old people.” Damon looks to be about to take that back and then seems to decide it really is what he means. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, here, or saying. You know?”

It’s a refreshing sort of honesty and Ed likes it.

Damon goes on. “I can just sit here. Be quiet.”

He could, Ed supposes. But though Damon and Alaric have been visiting twice a year since they’ve been together he’s never really had a conversation with Damon about anything, much, and he finds he wants to talk. Perhaps it will take his mind off things.

“No,” Ed says. “Talk to me. Alaric never told me how you met.”

Damon looks even guiltier. He twitches his face into a frown. “Well. I grew up in Mystic Falls. And, y’know, Alaric teaches there.”

Ed nods, but Damon seems unable to go on. Grappling with something. He casts his eyes away and back.

“Well you’re too old to be one of his students and too young to be a parent. So…?”

There is a moment, where Damon seems again to be trying to choose his words, but there is a relieved sort of honesty when he speaks. “I was helping to chaperone my little brother’s school dance. Fifties theme. Terrible decade, that, no offense.”

Ed snorts. “Wonderful decade. They knew how to cut a suit, then.” It was the fifties when Ed found Dianne, and the memory makes him smile.

“If you like. All those awful Pucci prints, though… Or maybe that was later. Anyway. That’s where we met.”

Satisfied with his story, Damon smirks.

“That will be one to tell your grandchildren.” Ed hopes there is all the scorn he intends there to be, in his voice, and he supposes there must be, because Damon suddenly looks sheepish. He holds his face still with one side of his mouth curled in amusement and shakes his head, a little. He hesitates for a long moment.

Watching these expressions chase each other over that lithe, pale face, Ed finds himself feeling a touch amused as well.

Finally, Damon laughs. An actual, full-throated laugh. Strange young man. Few will laugh at a time like this.

“Fine. Fine, Ed, you got me. Want to sit up a bit?”

Ed finds that he does, thank you. Damon stands, and it takes him only a few moments to work out how to get the head of the bed to lift up. Ed feels better instantly, the ache in his back receding, his breathing a little easier. Damon flares his nostrils as he adjusts the pillows. Ed can’t help but wonder if there is a smell of death in the air, something only a young man might notice. They think they’ll live forever, the young, but in the end, death comes to everyone.

“Better?”

Ed nods, and finds once again he can’t help but look at those eyes. Alaric has a type, no question. Black hair and pale eyes. Isobel, who had nearly torn Alaric’s heart from his chest, and then died, or disappeared, or what have you, could be Damon’s sister, if not for the strong lines of Damon’s face.

Damon pours water. Ed is about to ask him to pour it only to halfway – the tremor in his hands is too great to handle a full cup – but Damon seems to know. He pours only half a cup and passes it carefully to Ed’s waiting hand. Damon is patient, waiting, but sits down again when Ed indicates he is happy to hold the water in his hands.

Damon shifts the chair so they can see each other more easily.

“Well, you know he’s a big Civil War buff, of course. PhD and all. My family dates back to the civil war days in Mystic Falls. So we -”

A nurse steps inside the room, and Ed wants to throw her out. Damon stands. “I need coffee anyway,” he says. “Back in ten.”

The nurse is kind, but Ed finds that nurses are generally kind. She gives him the familiar tablets, red and white and yellow, that keep his pain to a minimum. She tells him he slept through breakfast and they didn’t want to wake him after the day he had yesterday but she can bring him a fruit cup, or a pudding cup, to eat with his tablets.

Ed nods his head. “I’ll take a pudding cup.” Dairy coats his stomach so the tablets don’t burn, he finds. The nurses disappears for a moment and comes back with three pudding cups. Two chocolate, and one vanilla. She puts a finger to her lips. Their secret.

“Was that your son? Grandson?” the nurse asks, as she checks off items on her clipboard. Ed feels a terrible rebellion coming on. He shakes his head.

“He’s my son’s boyfriend, or what have you,” he says.

He expects to see shock or embarrassment in the nurse’s eyes but she shakes her head with a wry smile. “All the good-looking guys I meet are gay or married or doctors. Or gay, married doctors.”

It’s a different world, now, Ed supposes.

“We have grief counselors,” the nurse says. Ed shakes his head. “The doctor will want to review your pain management, later,” she says. Ed nods. Finally she makes sure he can reach the call button, and she goes away again. If she notices the bulb has been removed from the light fitting she says nothing. Ed is grateful a lifetime of patents have made it possible for him to afford good health care and private rooms.

Damon comes back, quiet as a cat. With one of those ridiculously large cardboard coffee cups. No doubt some mocha-latte-frufru-corporate-cino with hazelnut syrup.

“You know how hard it is to get a black coffee in modern America?” Damon frowns, and lifts the lid from the cup, settling back into his chair.

Ed snorts. “You talk like you’re old.” Still he is oddly pleased the coffee is black.

“Well… not _old_ so much as classic.”

“Want a pudding cup?”

Ed half expects some ridiculous speech about how Damon couldn’t possibly deprive an old man like Ed of a pudding cup but those eyebrows shoot up like they must have when he was five years old and being offered a candy bar by a favored uncle. “Don’t mind if I do. Love the chemical aftertaste.” Damon takes one of the chocolate ones. When he takes the foil lid off the top he licks the back of it. He throws one foot on the other knee and eats the pudding like a small boy would, savoring every mouthful.

“So anyway. My house in Mystic Falls is full of all the old crap Alaric finds so fascinating. It’s a freaking museum, you wouldn’t believe it. Civil War relics. Diaries. There was a… great uncle of mine…”

Damon’s face goes serious, and then he nods, seeming to make a decision about something.

“Fuck it. What would you say if I told you I was in the Civil War?”

Ed snorts, and moves on to the vanilla pudding cup. “I’d say it sounded like a hell of a story, and I’d like to hear it.”

“Then let me tell you about it, Ed.” There is a flourish to Damon’s tone, and half a smile on his face.

This is a surprise. Ed would never have picked Damon for a story teller. The diaries, Ed supposes. He probably heard the stories on his father’s knee as a child, heard them so often he can see them.

“I was twenty-three when I signed up. Which was actually kind of old. In my regiment there were kids as young as fourteen. Their fathers would sign a note to say they were sixteen and frankly the South needed bodies. I didn’t believe in the war, not really, but my father – did I tell you he owned a tobacco plantation?”

Ed thinks he may have heard this once, and imagines it is a plantation that has been passed down through generations of the Salvatore family.

“We had slaves. Everyone had slaves. Everyone. We treated ours better than most but father was terrified that if he had to free them, or start paying them to work, he wouldn’t be able to make a profit anymore. My brother was only sixteen, father wanted him to do some more school. If he was eighteen maybe he would have gone anyway. I really don’t know. He was always the favorite. Saint Stefan. If father knew what he got up to…”

Damon abandons the empty cup and returns to his coffee. It seems to be to his satisfaction. Actually, he almost looks as if he is purring.

“Stefan and I got caught playing hand ball with a couple of the slaves once. Stefan was sent to bed without dinner and I was given a very tiresome talk about being a role model, and about the difference between being polite and being friendly. And then also sent to bed without dinner. The housekeeper snuck us bread and rabbit stew. She might have been the mother of one of the guys we were playing with, I don’t know. I can’t remember. Anyway that same night father said he expected me to sign up. So I did. The next day. Me and a couple of others, guys I’d grown up with. I had a friend, my best friend, I guess they’d say now, John Lockwood, a little younger than me. He was terrified. I told him to stick with me, I’d take care of him. Must have asked me five hundred times what would happen if he refused to kill anyone.

“Stefan actually cried, when I left. To be honest, I didn’t really have much of an idea of what it was going to be like. I think I was picturing us heading out to slay a dragon and coming home heroes next week. So I went off in a new uniform, with a gun and bayonet.

“I didn’t realize we’d mostly be walking, walking for days on end. We were filthy. I left in the summer and it was scorching hot, damp. You know they always said in Vietnam it was hard to keep your feet dry, but you had to, because otherwise, they’d rot? It wasn’t that bad. But the one thing you treasured was a spare pair of socks. The creases in your feet, and the gaps between your toes… nasty.

“We didn’t have much. We slept on hessian bags, if we had them. Most nights we had a tent up and it meant sleeping pretty close together but that was better than the alternative, especially for the young ones. They used to curl up together like they could pretend they were at home with their brothers and sisters. Food was… actually, the first few weeks, it wasn’t that bad. Potted meat, potatoes. Hard to believe but life was going on, all around us. We’d walk across farmland and the farmer would bring us bread, if he had it. Dried meat. Stuff like that. They called us heroes, told us we were protecting the South, told us God was walking with us, blah blah blah. We believed it. We had to be winning, right? If there was a farmhouse right in front of us where people were working, where there was an oven full of bread -” Damon becomes a little demonstrative, getting caught up in his story. Every inch Italian, all of a sudden, arms waving in the air. Ed fancies he can smell the bread. Damon grins widely and improbably and with more than just his face.

“And it was fun, other than the walking. It was like a freaking summer camp. We played football and cards and bartered with food and lied about all the girls whose virtue we’d stolen.” Damon grimaces. “Sounds weird, doesn’t it? It was fun, until it wasn’t.

Ed becomes aware that he is nearly a million miles away, and a hundred and fifty years back in time. Imagining those boys – and they were boys – marching in the heat, proud as lion cubs. He shifts in the bed, a little, easing the strain in his neck. The story plays out across Damon’s face and sometimes it does seem more like he is remembering than retelling. A masterful storyteller. Ed wonders if he has ever done theatre.

No. He doesn’t seem the type. Up on stage alone and the center of attention, maybe, but not a player in a company, sharing the spotlight.

Damon is fully present in his body and relishes who he is, enjoys every inch of himself. So caught up in his tale that he is beginning to slip back in the chair, gaze at the ceiling with its plaster tiles, flecked with water stains.

And then the spell breaks. Damon’s face is serious, still. He sits up, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees.

“We’d been walking for – I don’t even know, four weeks? Five? When we saw action for the first time.” He sips at the coffee, strums elegant fingers over his thigh, sitting straighter again. “I don’t know. Just – one of the boys in the front of the regiment – it looked like -” Damon stretches his neck out. Indicates the left side, meeting Ed’s eyes again. “It looked like the side of his neck just exploded. There was so much blood. I’d never seen so much blood before. I don’t think I really had any idea how much blood there really was in a human body.”

There is a flicker of something strange over Damon’s face when he says this, but he goes on.

“Everyone hit the ground. I crawled to where the kid was lying and held the wound closed. I thought I was saving him, when I realized the wound wasn’t actually bleeding any more. Until I realized he was just dead. Gone. This kid, I don’t know, seventeen?

“We dug trenches and avoided the shots – if they’d mastered automatic weaponry in the nineteenth century, Ed, no one would have come home – but by the time it was dark we had two dead and four injured. By morning two of the injured were dead. One got shot in the thigh – you know the femoral artery? Little pellet got into his leg, right there, and we never even realized how badly he was bleeding until he woke up dead. Well. You know.” Damon grins.

It should be terrible, to grin at a story like this, but it isn’t. It’s like laughing into the Grand Canyon, peering into the abyss.

“John was a fucking mess, pardon my French. He’d been smacked over the ear – hey, Ed, ever been smacked over the ear? It fucking hurts. Even if it’s not hard. Turns out he was aiming too high. Deliberately missing. He was shaking and, you know, I mean…” Damon rolls his eyes, though the look in his eyes is sad; “He was crying. Not the manliest of us. But I couldn’t blame him. We knew the kids on the other side were suffering the same fate, too. Some of us had shot some of them. There was wailing on both sides of the field that night. The smell of gunpowder and meat, raw meat. Human boy meat. And that stench of overripe earth. When the sun came up it rained and that was even worse. Every smell is stronger in the rain, if the weather is warm, you know? We were rationing dry meat and stale bread. That stale bread… some people complained about it. Adorable, really, since a couple of days later we were eating _moldy_ bread and the roots of grass and declaring it better than anything our mothers had ever cooked.”

It’s easy to get caught up in the story. Perhaps it is because Damon keeps saying about the smells. Sometimes it’s a smell gets you caught up in a memory, or sucks you right into a book. Hemmingway always remembered to write about the smells.

Damon looks a little lost. Perhaps he can’t remember what happens next. Ed sips at the water, finishing it, so he can call Damon back from his reverie.

“Damon. Son?”

Still it takes Damon a long moment to realize his name has been spoken. He stands, then, seems to be grateful he has something to do. He pours a half cup, again, and puts it into Ed’s hand. After Ed takes a small drink Damon tops it up a little and then sits again. Face dark. Like he really is remembering, and not just reciting an old story from an old book.

“Who won the battle?”

Damon shakes his head. “No one. No one wins a battle. We both lost. Both sides. Eventually we had to leave our dead and crawl away when it was dark. No food left, and no one could get us any ammunition, and we were twelve men down.”

“Boys,” Ed corrects.

“No. Men. They fought bravely and died men. Soldiers.”

Point taken.

“Did you kill anyone?”

It seems a strange question to ask – Ed thinks immediately he should have asked, instead, _did your ancestor kill anyone_? Damon flinches.

“I don’t know. I know I shot two.”

“Your friend? John?”

Damon shakes his head. “Not then. We met up with another regiment. We were forced a long way south, and I remember one day realizing I couldn’t be more than one hundred miles from home. Can you imagine? I couldn’t stop thinking about running away.” Damon’s face wears that familiar half-smirk, and his head rolls against the back of the chair. He meets Ed’s eyes. “A deserter. I only stayed because I figured Father would have dripped treacle over me and staked me to an anthill.” He grins again, at this, but it is a grin that conceals real pain.

“He was a hard man.” It’s not a question.

“He was no Edward Saltzman. Broken hearted from the moment my mother died in childbirth with Stefan. I don’t know why he took that out on me. Or maybe I do. We didn’t look a lot alike, if you know what I mean.”

Ed feels an odd trepidation. This little detail seems surplus to the requirements of the story.

Damon shakes his head again. “Sorry. Dysfunctional family crap.” The coffee must be cold, but Damon drinks more anyway. Wrinkling his elegant nose and sighing.

“We were with the new regiment for, I don’t know, a couple of weeks, and heading west so we could start advancing north again, when we came across this huge plantation house. Turned out it was full to bursting with Yankee soldiers. So we were outnumbered, hiding behind the tree line. They were bold.” Damon tilt his head as he says it, bold. The bow of his lips pursed closed around a tiny ‘o’. “So we really fought. Eventually, even _John_ started shooting low enough that he had a shot at hitting something.” Damon casts his eyes low.

Ed finds himself yawning. Wondering when Alaric will be back and unsure whether he hopes it will be soon, or not. The story is unsettling. Damon is unsettling, though Ed can’t say why; and he likes Damon, he’s quite sure of that. It’s too real, the story, it’s too real is all. The smell of the bread and the gunpowder.

Perhaps something in Ed’s demeanor shifts, because Damon looks up. Not inquisitive, just wondering, has he shared too much death with an old man who started his morning thinking of one death too many already?

“I can stop. I should’ve stopped with the football and the bread. Right? Alaric always says I talk too much.”

Ed is surprised and maybe Damon is too when Ed shakes his head. “No. Go on. Better than…” Ed isn’t sure if he gestures at his head or his heart but he gestures, certainly. “Getting all caught up in here. Go on.”

It strikes Ed for a moment that right up until Damon found Alaric – or Alaric found Damon – whatever, there is more to it than chaperoning a dance together and maybe Ed is better off not knowing, but he feels quite sure that right up until then Damon was a very, very lonely man.

Too young to be so lonely. He looks maybe twenty-five but the math doesn’t work, not if this is the fourth year Ed has known Damon. That would mean he was twenty, maybe twenty one when…

So he’s just aging well. That’s good. Still. Too young to remember loneliness of that sort anyway. Some small part of Ed feels a tiny sensation of fear.

“John killed two people. One of the Yankee boys – stupid, brave kid, maybe eighteen – came rushing over at us. John fired over his head, and the kid kept running. In the end, John took him on the end of his bayonet. They were there together, close enough to touch. John pulled the bayonet out and when the soldier collapsed onto the ground, John covered his chest wound with his hands. I don’t know who was crying worse, but… Fuck.” Damon’s eyes look a little shiny. It is a bit much, throwing kids together in a battlefield instead of a playground or a college. “The weird thing – the Yankee kid was a negro.” Damon corrects himself. “Sorry. African American. Freed man, whatever.” Damon flinches, seems to blush. “We didn’t even know they were fighting. So John’s trying to hold this kid together and the kid’s crying and John’s crying and in the end, they were clutching at each other when he died. Worst fucking thing I’d ever seen.”

Yes, Ed imagines it must have been. He can see it. Two kids with nothing in common, and with every single thing in common. The same kid in two different skins, one in a brown uniform and one in blue.

“John cried that night, all night. I fell asleep holding him. Around us, people were talking about it, talking about how they couldn’t trust a neg- a freed black slave to watch their backs. Like they hadn’t learned a fucking thing.”

This, too, Ed can imagine, but he suspects some of them learned something.

“John killed two men, you said,” Ed prompts, because Damon has that faraway look in his eyes.

Damon nods. “That night, after I was asleep…” He leans back against his chair and swallows hard against a sob. It is soundless, but it is there.

He is really _in_ this, in the story. Ed feels a pang of irritation that any parent could tell a child a story like this often enough so it starts to feel real for the child. This real. Real enough to make him roll his head back and swallow or what have you.

“What?”

Ed’s not even sure he wants to hear it but he thinks maybe Damon needs to say it.

“Those rifles. Even with the bayonet off, the were long. You wanted to shoot yourself in the head you had to rig it up with string and pull the trigger with your toe, line it up right under your chin. So that’s how I woke up. To the sound of John Lockwood, who I’d grown up with, shooting himself in the head.”

They are silent a good long time.

“Why do you think he did it?”

“For a long time I thought he just couldn’t do another day at war. Not a single day more.” Damon’s eyes are still on the ceiling. “Now… I think… killing that soldier meant he’d changed, in some way he couldn’t live with. I don’t know.”

Damon is very still, and then he’s not. “Anyway. I deserted. Risked the treacle and the anthill. You could buy your way out of the army and my father bought my way out rather than have anyone learn I’d deserted. My days were numbered, you know? And I had a pretty girl to get back to.”

“Is that right.” Ed chuckles.

“Yeah. My brother and I had a tug-o-war going with her. _Very_ pretty girl. Total bitch.”

Why it is that each time Damon curses like this Ed feels the urge to smile, he’s not sure; but the urge is there. People are rarely indelicate with the elderly and Ed likes the irreverence of it. It makes him feel like he is a part of the world, again, really.

Since he’s not long for the world, it’s a good feeling.

“The war ended, not long after I got home. Seemed like such a waste.”

Of course, war always is.

Time passes, perhaps ten minutes or fifteen minutes or even longer. Enough time has gone by that Ed feels hungry and also wants some more pills.

“Your ancestor. Did he win the girl?”

“Another battle that was lost by both sides.” Damon sits up. His expression is intense, though it gives very little away.

“I was telling the truth, Ed. It’s not a story. It was me.”

And it can’t be true, so Ed only smiles again. And then Damon’s face changes. His eyes are suddenly red-black, predatory. Veins beneath his eyes engorge with blood. Ed imagines he sees the very ends of a pair of pointy white teeth descend over Damon’s bottom lip, and then his features go back to normal.

“You don’t have to be afraid.”

Damon’s face is serious and settled but there is no trace of threat in his beautiful, human features.

It can’t be true, though. But.

“I was going grey, at Alaric’s age,” Ed says, when he can speak again. “Alaric’s hair is the same color it was when he was a boy.”

Damon nods.

There is no such thing as a vampire. There isn’t. There can’t be. But. That was not stage makeup. Can’t have been a trick. Dementia is settling in, then, has left Dianne’s still body and entered Ed’s like a thief in the night. Robbing him.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Ed. You don’t.”

 _My son is a vampire_ , Ed tests out in his head. Except he can’t be. Because if vampires are real, then –

“Is my son a killer?”

The words hurt almost too much to get out, and Ed chokes on them, but Damon shakes his head firmly. “No. He protects people. He’s saved a lot of lives. Even before this. He’s never killed. Unless you count the odd monster. Most vampires aren’t like Alaric. Aren’t like us,” he corrects, as if it is a point of pride.

Ed decides against asking Damon if he ever killed, after the Civil War. There’s a killer in there somewhere but if Alaric loves Damon then that killer must be a long way beneath the surface, withering like bad fruit.

Ed feels tears burn his eyes and he cannot help but picture the tanned whippet Alaric was at ten, leaping into the ocean on a trip to Florida. Protecting pigtailed girls and injured puppies. This doesn’t sound all bad, except for the part where there are no vampires and vampires kill.

Strangely, Damon takes Ed’s hand. It is warmer than Ed would have guessed, but it is cooler than Ed’s own hand, the ancient, paper-thin skin crackling over it. Nobody touches old people. They go unnourished by human touch. This is oddly sweet.

“All you need to know is that he’ll live forever and he’ll always be loved.”

Sounds alright, at the end of it all.

Ed nods, and closes his hand over Damon’s.

When Alaric walks into the room, some time later, his expression is grief-stricken, but he seems relieved to find Ed awake, Damon present, and even looks glad – if surprised – to see their moment of intimacy, the firmly-grasped hands. And they are firmly grasped hands. Damon has given Ed something he can take into the void. An assurance.

Alaric will never be alone. Yes, if Ed can carry something into the void, this is what he will take. _My son will never be alone._

Ed can’t help but study Alaric’s face. He still just looks kind, and wise, like his son has always looked, if haunted just now – he has just arranged his mother’s funeral, after all – but Ed wants to relearn this face, the face that won’t change again. The body that will never be riddled with cancer, the intelligence that will never be ravaged by dementia. Alaric leans to hold his father gently. He has always been affectionate, demonstrative.

Ed’s strange, wonderful son.

“Whatever Damon’s been telling you is a goddamn lie,” he says, aiming for levity. “You know that, right, dad?”

“Oh, I know,” Ed answers. “Full of tall tales.”

“Do you want to hear about the arrangements?” Alaric sits on the edge of the bed, so close. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“I can’t believe she stayed this long.” Ed holds Alaric’s hands in both of his own. “I can’t believe either of us did. I think I’ll go, soon, too,” he says, tears prickling his eyes. “I’m not afraid. You’ll be alright. Got a good man to care for you. You’ll look after each other.”

Alaric smiles. The face hasn’t changed in four years but the smile hasn’t changed in over thirty. “Not yet, dad. Let’s catch up.”

Damon stands. “I’m going to go find something Boston-y to do for a couple of hours,” he says. “Tea. One of those sticky bread things with the pink frosting. Nice talking to you, Ed.”

 

**

 

When the phone rings in the morning, waking both Alaric and Damon from where they fell asleep on Ed and Dianne’s couch after a long night of drinking and not saying very much of anything Damon knows instantly what the call is about.

After a quick trip to the hospital so that Alaric can kiss his father on the forehead one last time – it is an instinct Damon recognizes, having seen it before, though he still finds it a little odd, to say goodbye to a body that doesn’t have anyone left in it – they return to the funeral home to see if they can make it a double funeral. This, apparently, is easy. A friend of the family offers to call everyone who cared about the elder Saltzmans (Saltzmen? Whatever).

It occurs to Damon that Alaric should have someone, too, so he calls Elena and offers to book her a round trip, thinking her small, warm hand might be just the thing to fit into Alaric’s and besides, someone has to know the right thing to say and it won’t be Damon.

Despite the fact it is only a couple of days after Christmas Elena insists that yes, she wants to be there.

Damon promises himself that at the very least, he will never be a big enough dumbass to tell Alaric about that last exchange with Ed. _Er, sorry, I told your dad you’re a vampire. But given the stink of cancer on him I doubt it had much of an impact on his prompt demise_.

Nope.

He collects Elena from the airport. Why she is crying Damon is not sure as she has never met the Saltzmans – Saltzmen? Fuck, why does his brain keep doing that? Why can’t it do something useful like find a blood bank to break into? – but she is a little weepy. So adorably human.

Perhaps it is because he spoke about Katherine, however briefly, with Ed, but it occurs to Damon for the first time that Elena really doesn’t look a lot like Katherine any more.

“Is Alaric okay?” she asks, with her strong arms held tight around Damon’s waist.

Damon shrugs. “Yes. No. Yes. They were old, Elena. It’s not like when you lost yours.”

“You’re not being horrible, are you?” She pulls away so she can see his face because Elena can read Damon like a book.

Is he? Being horrible?

“No.” Damon is pretty sure on this point. He doesn’t have anything to compare it to but he thinks he’s got the basics of being a good boyfriend down, now. “But I’m probably going to say the exact wrong thing any minute now so I thought maybe you could do the comforting part of the… thing.” He gestures, something vaguely communicative, he hopes.

Elena nods, and very sweetly, does not call Damon an emotional cripple. Damon for his part does not succumb to the urge to say _I totally outed Ric to his dad. Should have seen his face_.

(It should be said: he is a little proud. He gave Ed a short moment of horror and then told him who his son is, a good man. St Alaric. Strong and brave. Who will live forever and be loved always. Whether there is something to go on to or not Ed took that with him.

He recalls the feeling of that parchment skin in his hand and wonders if he will ever tell Alaric the truth.

He doubts it. It was between Damon and Ed, and old man and a young man, and which was which is anyone’s call.)

At the house Elena wraps her arms around Alaric’s neck and says all the right things into the crook of his shoulder and Damon thinks he should maybe write it all down for future reference but fuck, it’s not like Alaric has another set of parents somewhere.

The funeral is well attended by members of Dianne’s church, though it is held outdoors at the cemetery. There are a handful of Ed’s Harvard colleagues still alive and some other, younger-looking academics (Damon hasn’t quite worked it all out but he gathers Ed was something of a legend in the physics department, there’s a library wing or a lecture hall or something named after him and he made good money from patents) and they are there as well, mostly somber, a couple telling stories about Ed’s capacity for liquor (clearly a genetic thing, then, huh).

Elena holds Alaric’s hand as the Minister speaks and Damon fights the urge to check the time. It’s been so long since anyone expected him to participate in human rituals. They make his head itch. Jenna’s funeral had been sort of overshadowed by Damon’s presumed imminent death. He can’t really remember how it went, or how long it took.

He chances a glance at Alaric’s face. Crap, there are tears there. Not many. Big ones, though.

Well, fuck the old ladies and the suits. Let them be scandalized. Damon takes Alaric’s other hand, bigger than his own, and gives it a squeeze. Alaric squeezes gently back.

 

**

 

Three days after the funeral, they are all ready to leave. They have arranged for someone to pack up the house and also arranged for its sale. They have shipped all the books and photos and a box of other stuff Alaric wants to keep back to Mystic Falls. Alaric has spent a long time sitting in his childhood bedroom and not saying very much.

He seems okay, though.

Elena and Damon coax Alaric out of the house for a meal and too much drinking, and it’s fun. Elena and Matt graduate in less than six months and they’re trying to decide what to do next.

Alaric is quite firm on this: “Graduate studies.” It’s sort of hot when he goes all parental and bossy. Elena looks like the option is definitely open.

“Matt wants to be a teacher,” she says fondly. Damon says nothing about vanilla, or high school sweethearts, or even the missionary position, and does not make reference to vampire sexual stamina. He is quite pleased with himself.

It seems they will get Elena onto a plane in time to beat the first big snowfall of winter in Boston and that she will not miss her New Year’s Eve party, either.

Close to Logan Airport Elena’s phone rings, and with a quick, bright smile, she says “Caroline!”

Damon watches her face in the rear view mirror. It goes from pleased to incredulous to horrified to heartsick in the space of about two minutes, and then the hand holding the phone drops into Elena’s lap.

“Pull over,” she says, and Alaric executes a very clever maneuver to cross three lanes of traffic. To a chorus of car horns they pull onto the shoulder. Even then, Elena barely gets her seatbelt off and her door open before she falls to her knees and lets out a thin, yellow stream of bile.

Damon holds Elena’s hair back and Alaric wraps a jacket around her shoulders until she is able to be still. It has been a long time since Elena was anything to Damon than a precious friend, someone to protect and love and someone who gives good advice, but seeing her in pain like this does awful things to his gut. Alaric’s gut, too, by the stricken look on his face.

“What is it?” Alaric asks.

Elena blinks slowly, breathes deeply, and wipes her lips with a Kleenex Alaric has managed to produce out of nowhere. “Caroline. She’s in Mystic Falls. And she has Stefan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zynali on FFN said she would have liked a longer conversation between Alaric's father and Damon. This hit me like a freight train.  
> Thank you, dear.


	6. 2017 - Stefan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six years, but Stefan is back.  
> __
> 
> Close to Logan Airport Elena’s phone rings, and with a quick, bright smile, she says “Caroline!”
> 
> Damon watches her face in the rear view mirror. It goes from pleased to incredulous to horrified to heartsick in the space of about two minutes, and then the hand holding the phone drops into Elena’s lap.
> 
> “Pull over,” she says, and Alaric executes a very clever maneuver to cross three lanes of traffic. To a chorus of car horns they pull onto the shoulder. Even then, Elena barely gets her seatbelt off and her door open before she falls to her knees and lets out a thin, yellow stream of bile.
> 
> Damon holds Elena’s hair back and Alaric wraps a jacket around her shoulders until she is able to be still.
> 
> “What is it?” Alaric asks.
> 
> Elena blinks slowly, breathes deeply, and wipes her lips with a Kleenex Alaric has managed to produce out of nowhere. “Caroline. She’s in Mystic Falls. And she has Stefan.”

Now – 2017

 

They drive eight miles in the direction they are pointed and turn around the first chance they get.

Damon sits in the back seat with Elena. He holds her hand, lets her curl against him. He says almost nothing. It’s a twelve hour drive from Boston to Mystic falls which means if they drive all the way it will be early morning tomorrow before they get there. Fuck. Fuck. Elena sobs, sometimes, sobs for long minutes. Alaric sticks the stupid headset-thingy in his ear and calls an airline, arranges for a flight for Matt. It occurs to Damon only after Alaric has arranged the flight that he should have called Matt first. Immediately after this he stops caring because if Elena wants Matt near he will be there. When Alaric finally gets Matt on the phone and explains the only question he asks is what time the flight leaves, and can he talk to Elena.

Elena sobs into the phone and admits she’s afraid and tells Matt she loves him five times in a row.

Damon pulls her closer and tries really, really hard not to think about that fact that this is Stefan they are talking about. Damon’s brother. The only person before now he’s ever had a chance to keep and maybe it hasn’t been the longest break they’ve had in the relationship but it’s been the weirdest, maybe because of Alaric, maybe because of Elena. Maybe because other than the far-too-conspicuous absence of Stefan life has felt so gloriously and spectacularly normal for some time.

Elena hangs up the phone and calms somewhat but not all the way. She cries less, anyway, and Damon is glad, glad that Matt makes her cry less; for a boring, vanilla flavored human he’s sort of okayish.

Elena inspires an almost supernatural degree of devotion in the people around her. Matt is no less prone than Damon or Alaric.

Damon says nothing and continues to say that. He wonders if Elena can feel his heart beat like a totally separate monster there in his chest.

Alaric clears his throat and meets Damon’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

 “I can take you guys to an airport,” he says. “Dozens between here and there. You could maybe get there faster. Depends on the flights. I can make some calls.”

Elena looks panicked at the thought of arriving sooner rather than later.

“Just drive, Ric,” she says. “Maybe by the time we get there I will have stopped shaking.”

And by the way thank fuck for Alaric and his calm because Damon wants to lose his shit all over the Eastern Seaboard. Find something, someone to kill. Punch his way into a wall, tear a tree up by its roots.

He won’t because if Alaric can drive, keep to the speed limit, stay so very Alaric-y, then Damon can keep his shit together too.

 

 

**

Then – 2011

Stefan and Elena had taken things slow, after he got back. They’d dated. Kept to well-lit places. Generally with Damon or Alaric or both within earshot, ever cautious, though Alaric could have done little but shoot Stefan if something went wrong. Still human, then, but Damon had been developing an oddly optimistic streak and already suspected this might not be a permanent arrangement.

For the first couple of months it seemed to be going well, though the sexual tension was mounting. The body of a seventeen year old was not the ideal place for a sexually frustrated hundred and sixty five year old to be trapped. But Stefan didn’t trust himself, so he was overly cautious, barely kissed Elena without being begged and cajoled.

Stefan drank a balanced diet of bagged human blood and woodland creatures. At the rate he was drinking there would be no birds left to braid Elena’s hair in the morning.

Yeesh.

But, human blood too so Damon was getting complacent. So what if it usually took Stefan a decade or more to recover from a binge? He was in love!

One night Stefan and Elena had gone for dinner with the rest of Mystic Falls’ delinquent supernaturals. This necessitated Damon and Alaric staying at the boarding house because neither felt like talking to teenagers. They were arguing, loudly, about, Damon can’t remember, it had seemed important at the time. Probably movie directors or whether the zombies in _28 Days Later_ really counted as zombies, since they weren’t actually dead. Life and death, anyway. So they hadn’t heard Stefan and Elena coming home, ascending the stairs.

When Elena started to scream Damon and Alaric had both dropped their glasses and run for the stairs. They got to Stefan’s room in time for Damon to tear his half crazed brother off Elena while Alaric held the flesh at the junction of her neck and shoulder closed, screaming for Damon to give her some blood.

By then Stefan had started mumbling nonsense syllables; _oh my god, Elena, I am so sorry, is she okay_ , so Damon left him shaking on the floor and covered in his girlfriend’s blood, tearing his own wrist open to feed – and heal – Elena. She was weak and pale in Alaric’s arms, barely swallowing. Alaric kept his hand closed tight around the wound. Elena lost consciousness and still it just wouldn’t close. She wouldn’t drink, really, they just kept hoping it was at least dripping into her throat.

Damon had to bite into his wrist three, four times, and he found himself wondering, if he turned her – if she didn’t heal in time – could she forgive him?

He doubted she would.

Alaric’s expression had changed, suddenly, and Damon knew the skin was knitting shut, fluttering beneath Alaric’s hand.

“How fast can she regenerate blood?” Alaric has asked and Damon had known instantly that the question was the exact right one. And also that it sucked because without transfusions Elena would die, and turn, and hate them all forever.

“Stefan, what’s her blood type?” Alaric had barked.

Stefan had gaped and swayed and been unable to speak or get far off the floor.

“Stefan! What is her blood type?” Damon, this time, and the response was better but not by much because of all the fucking things that a vampire should know about the so-called love of their life, it was their blood type – and Stefan didn’t.

“I don’t know.”

“Got much type O?” Alaric had asked Damon.

“There’s hardly anything here at all,” Damon had answered, and he’d been as pissed off at himself for that fact as he was at Stefan, who was still in a state of half collapse on the floor.

They had taken Elena out to the car, not wanting to wait for an ambulance, and called Meredith Fell to meet them at the hospital. Elena was unconscious, and too pale, and cold, and Alaric had held her tight and close in the front seat, trying to keep her warm.

Only Meredith could be trusted. Only Meredith could understand how there could be such terrible blood loss without a wound. By the time they got to the hospital she had Elena’s blood type from her file and was ready to start pumping her veins full again.

Damon and Alaric had watched all night as Elena got pinker and pinker. Both covered in so much blood it looked like a horror movie gone wrong. Meredith had checked in on them every fifteen minutes, with the odd, sad glance at Alaric because she had hoped after a lifetime of dating losers, she might have found The One.

_Sorry, Mer, no._

When Elena woke, as the sun was coming up, and her blood pressure was a perfect one-twenty over eighty, her first words had been “Where’s Stefan?”

Damon was so relieved she was neither dead nor turned that he couldn’t even yell at her for letting herself be alone with Stefan in a room doing the sorts of things that can make the blood run hotter. He and Alaric had both just breathed out for the first time in so many hours it came as a shock to realize they were both holding so much spent air.

“He’s at the house,” Alaric had said. “Hopefully beating himself with a switch of vervain.”

It was only then Elena realized she was wearing a hospital gown and not the blouse that Stefan had half-relieved her of the night before. That Damon and Alaric were covered in blood that could only be hers. Her chin had wobbled, and she’d seen the bruise in her arm where blood had been fed into her all night.

It was like watching a vase tip up and wondering if it would fall and smash.

The vase smashed. Elena cried and cried while Alaric lay alongside her on the bed, pulling her into his arms, her back against his chest, while Damon sat alongside and held her hand.

“Is he ever going to be okay, Damon?”

Had she asked when Damon’s life was on its characteristic downhill trajectory, he might have lied, but he didn’t. “Yes,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But it might not be for a really long time.”

“Is he upset?”

Alaric kissed Elena’s hair, ignoring the blood that had dried in it, and he rubbed gentle circles into her shoulders. “Upset isn’t the word for it.”

Once Elena had a clean bill of health they all thanked Meredith.

Waiting for Elena to dress, Damon and Alaric stood in the waiting room.

“He ever hurts her again, and I will find a way to kill him,” Alaric had said. Damon had tried to shape words but couldn’t and didn’t know what shape those words might be. Something about ‘brother’ and ‘family’ and ‘if you kill him I’ll kill you’ but none of the words quite fit, so he’d just nodded, figuring they would deal with that when they had to, if they had to.

Damon and Alaric drove Elena home to shower and put on some clean clothes. Alaric had changed his shirt and insisted Damon do the same, though they didn’t take time to do more than wash their faces and hands. Elena wanted to see Stefan. Reassure him she was alive and well. On Elena’s insistence, they took her back to the boarding house.

Stefan wasn’t in his room, which was exactly as they had left it, with pools of blood coagulated on the duvet, splatters drying to rust colored stains. Damon thought the basement was a reasonable guess, half expected to find Stefan had cuffed himself to the wall, but he wasn’t there either. When the rang his cell they quickly found it had been deposited in a wastebasket in the library.

Damon had returned to Stefan’s room and determined quite quickly that some of his clothing and a sports bag were gone. Alaric and Elena found him standing in front of the wardrobe looking, he imagined, lost, since that was they way he felt.

“He’s gone,” Damon had said.

“Will he come back?” Elena had started crying again, tucked up against Alaric’s chest.

“Yes,” Damon had said. “But I don’t know when.”

 

…

 

Now - 2017

 

Damon has barely said a word. He sits in the back seat while Elena sleeps against his chest and Alaric drives and drives and also says nothing.

Two o’clock in the morning Alaric finds somewhere to buy gas. Damon lets Elena’s head slip onto the back seat and paces.

“Where do you think he’s been?”

Alaric shakes his head. “I feel like such a piece of shit but I haven’t thought about him much at all. In years. He was out of sight, out of mind. I’m sorry.”

“He nearly killed her. First year I sort of thought if he never showed up again I wouldn’t be sorry. Fuck. We’ve gone decades without laying eyes on each other. Don’t know why I’m freaking the fuck out out. You think he’s okay? Fuck.”

Alaric hesitates. “Caroline wouldn’t have brought him back to Mystic if he wasn’t under control. And by the way. Caroline?”

Damon nods. That’s definitely weird.

Alaric pays. “I need to eat,” he says, and Damon nods. High emotion burns through blood fast and Alaric is still young, needs to eat more.

“We got pie,” says the pimply faced kid behind the counter. “We got jerky. You want jerky?”

“No,” Alaric says, “I want you to follow me into the alley.” The kid’s eyes go wide and flat and he nods. Damon follows though it is starting to get a little boring, policing Alaric’s drinking. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like Alaric is going to kill anyone. He probably feels guilty when he steps on a spider.

Not the time to talk about it.

Damon returns to the car to wait while Alaric feeds the kid enough blood to heal his wrist and send him away healthy. Elena barely stirs as Damon shifts her head back onto his knee. He wants her close.

Without a word, Alaric climbs back into the driver’s seat and they pull away again. Silence, only silence for a long time, trees and cars flashing by, surreally lit by headlights and the bright moon.

Alaric’s eyes find Damon’s in the rear view mirror again. “Are you alright?”

Damon nods his head jerkily and turns away again.

They are maybe fifty miles from Mystic Falls city limits when Elena begs Alaric to pull over again and she empties her stomach again. For various reasons the drive has gone badly and the sun is almost up, just pinking the horizon a touch. Around six in the morning.

Alaric offers Elena a bottle of water. She steps a little distance from the road and leans against a tree. Damon and Alaric watch her a moment.

“Come here,” Alaric says, and Damon leans against him, Alaric’s hand on his hip, the other against the back of his neck. A little cutesy for them but whatever.

“Fuck,” Damon says. “Just, fuck.” He nestles his face into Alaric’s neck and breathes. Alaric smells good, Alaric always smells good. “He comes and goes. Always has. I don’t know why I’m such a fucking wreck. Punch me or something. C’mon, Ric.”

“I’ll punch you,” Elena says. Her eyes are red and puffy. Damon pulls away from Alaric and slaps his chest.

“Right here, Buffy,” he says.

Elena shakes her head. “I’m scared.” Her arms are crossed. “What if…” she trails off.

_And, what if what, Elena? What if he eats you? What if you’re still in love with him? What if he ruins everything, fixes everything, changes everything?_

Alaric reads all this and more on Damon’s face and gives a quarter of a nod, turning back to Elena.

“Do you need more time? We can drive to Charlottesville. Wait for Matt’s flight.” Alaric’s eyes are big and kind and it’s probably inappropriate but for a moment Damon considers compelling Elena to sleep under the tree for an hour so he can fuck Alaric well and thoroughly and the world might then seem a little bit more like it did last week.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Elena says, and Damon startles; _didn’t say that out loud, did I_?, but, no, she’s talking about the airport. It’s a little over an hour and a half from where they are.

They stop at a diner for breakfast, with two hours to wait for Matt’s flight. Endless cups of coffee. They say little.

Elena sits up straight suddenly. “Oh, my god. It’s new year’s day,” she says. “Can you believe that? Where were we at midnight?”

And damn it, she’s right, and what a shitty way to start the year. At midnight they were somewhere a bit more than halfway between Boston and Mystic Falls. Damon and Alaric should have started the new year the way they started the last one, with Alaric buried in Damon and holding him down, holding him in place, big hands everywhere. Bourbon and champagne leaking from their pores and the rest of the world seven millions miles away. Missing the bed again. Fucking their way across the Persian rug in front of the fireplace or the kitchen floor, or stumbling halfway up the stairs and doing it on the landing there.

Alaric’s eyes are bright and amused for a moment and Damon knows Alaric is remembering the same thing.

Elena raises her mug.

“Happy new year, us,” she says, and sips the coffee.

Waiting for Matt and Elena to emerge from the airport terminal Alaric’s eyes flicker over Damon’s face half a dozen times before Damon turns with an actual snarl.

“What?”

“I know why Elena didn’t want to go back right away. Don’t know why you didn’t.”

Damon keeps pacing.

Alaric’s arms twitch and Damon can see he wants to pull Damon in, pull him close, but he won’t. Damon is made of lightning and other unpredictable things. Damon has not yet reacted, really, to the fact that he is about to be face to face with his brother for the first time in six years and he’s not sure how he feels about it yet.

“Fuck you,” is Damon’s eventual, considered answer.

 

**

 

Matt and Elena on the back seat, Matt with his chin on the top of Elena’s head, an arm slung around her shoulder. Matt is an open book. Matt has no secrets. Matt gazes out the window and writ large on his face is the fear that Elena will look at Stefan and just like that want him back all the way.

It occurs to Damon that it is entirely possible that no one but him and Alaric and Elena and Stefan and Meredith Fell know what happened that night. Maybe Elena never told anyone, just said as she did to most people that she and Stefan had broken up and he was away and staying with extended family in another state. Maybe she told Matt the whole story and maybe she didn’t but either way he imagines Matt will stay afraid until the moment he gets to take Elena away from Mystic Falls again.

Damon sits in the front passenger seat and doesn’t yell at Alaric to drive faster. He is quite proud of his restraint.

It seems to take seconds, and a year or longer, to get to the boarding house. Caroline is sitting alone on the step of the patio. She stands and a moment after the car pulls to a stop she is there with her hands in her pockets and a wretched look on her face, focusing mainly on her toes.

Elena and Matt climb out first. Damon watches as they hug Caroline, awkwardly, chasms full of who the fuck knows what between them, and Damon isn’t sure who looks more afraid, between Caroline and Matt; but Elena places a small, warm hand on the small of Matt’s back, and he relaxes visibly.

“I have to do this by myself,” Damon says, and is surprised when he does.

Still with his eyes on Elena and Matt and Caroline, Alaric nods. Damon doesn’t move to get out of the car.

“Ric…”

Alaric turns and meets Damon’s eyes. “He’s your brother. No explanation needed.”

Seems they should touch. Kiss, or grab at each other’s hands, but Damon feels that same indefinable chasm split them apart. Alaric reads it all in the set of Damon’s mouth, in the slight narrow of his eyes.

“Just go,” Alaric says. “Go.” And he climbs out of the front seat.

Grateful beyond measure Damon climbs out of the car as well. He pauses, as does Alaric, by the trio of confused and saddened faces.

Caroline bites her lip. “Stefan wants to see you first, Damon. And I have to talk to Elena.” She doesn’t meet Damon’s eyes.

Damon nods and Alaric glances from face to face and then away again. Elena reaches for Matt’s arm.

“No, Care, I -”

And by fuck, Matt has gotten all impressive and adult over the years because he grips Elena’s hand. “It’s okay. You’ll tell me everything later.”

The wording is not lost on Damon. Nor is the soft trusting step Matt takes, backwards and sideways and away.

Caroline takes Elena’s hand and leads her to a little red Fiat (a rental, obviously) into the front passenger seat. Matt tenses and rubs at his own wrist. An odd nervous gesture Damon hasn’t seen before.

“Go,” Alaric says, and Damon hesitates another long moment.

“Just…”

“Go, Damon,” and Alaric turns, grins lopsidedly at Matt. “You and me. Let’s go find some trouble to get into.”

“Yeah. Cool, Mr Saltz-… Ric.” Matt shakes his head like there are cobwebs to be cleared and Alaric turns to look at Damon again.

“Why are you still here?” Alaric’s eyes are soft and settled on Damon’s face. He understands, the fucker, he knows Damon too well.

Alaric knows that sometimes the brain procrastinates while the heart races ahead.

Damon wants to drag Alaric up to the bedroom which is no longer _his_ but _theirs_. He doesn’t. He nods. He reminds himself that short days ago they were standing in a too-sunny graveyard and burying Alaric’s parents and that maybe Alaric isn’t yet ready for all this fuckery either.

Damon can’t even keep that in his head for long because that’s what humans do, especially old ones: they die.

Alaric looks… sort of okayish. He and Matt are heading for the car, and Alaric doesn’t even look at Damon as he pulls the door shut.

Okay.

Damon opens the door of the boarding house and pushes through to the library, where he knows Stefan will be waiting.

“Hello, brother,” Stefan says, without turning from his place in front of the fire.

Damon is different, now.

Damon has no idea how much Stefan knows about the last six years.

The impact of a partner, someone loved and safe and cherished and reliable and who is always happy to see you get home: It is a safety net and a crazy concept. And Damon is not yet used to it. Stefan has never had this and for a moment, Damon feels guilty.

“Hello, brother,” is all he is able to respond with. He stands for a long moment.

It is Stefan who crosses the room in the end, and Stefan who wraps his arms around Damon’s body, like it’s Their Thing.

It’s not Their Thing. Still, Damon hugs back.

“I should tell you now, if you ever hurt Elena again, Alaric will kill you.”

“I won’t. And I’m not here for her. I’m here for you. I mean. I need to see her, I need to talk to her. But I’m not here for her.”

Damon pulls away.

“You going to tell me what you’ve been doing for six years?”

Stefan wears a terrible expression Damon can’t even think about. Easy to interpret, impossible to describe.

“No,” he says at last, “but I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing for the last year.”

 

**

 

Most days Caroline is made from love and laughter and every imaginable color but right now, she is mostly made of fear. She and Elena find a booth at the Mystic Grill and though it seems a little early to do so, they order wine.

They were silent in the car. Silent until Elena said in a tiny voice, “I missed you,” and Caroline wanted to pull over right then. Cry into Elena’s shoulder and beg her for forgiveness and beg her especially not to be in love with Stefan again, just because he is back.

Part of Stefan is going to belong to Elena always and Caroline hates it. Hates herself for hating it too and it’s just not in her to do this much hate. She can be bitchy, she knows it, but she is not mean. Well. Not often.

They are silent there in the Grill for a little while, shooting half-smiles at each other.

“How long… I mean… when did you find him?”

Caroline feels her forehead tighten. “Like a year and a half,” she says, and feels tears collect and threaten. This lie is the reason she has avoided Elena on the phone and stuck to texting. Caroline is many things but a convincing liar, she is not.

“A year and a half?”

“I love him.” She doesn’t mean to blurt like this. The words slip out of her treacherous mouth and spill out on the table between them, settling like a fresh tide over the pock-marked wood.

Elena gapes for a moment, and then one side of her mouth hooks up to a smile. She’s so pretty. Caroline wishes, some days, that she could have made it to adulthood before being turned, have this adult face. Elena’s smile is adult, and certain.

“You do?”

Yes, too much now. The tears spill over. Caroline realizes she’s shaking and thinks for the tenth time she should have gone hunting with Stefan this morning. She’s a little weak and hungry.

“Yes,” Caroline says. And then a little stronger, wide eyes and long eyelashes. Caroline’s eyes on Elena’s. “I love him.”

Elena slumps, relieved. “Thank you,” she says. “If you can – love him forever. Look after him. He deserves a home.”

Caroline is not sure who moves first but she and Elena clutch at each other and cry into each other’s shoulders for a long while. There are words and nonsense syllables spoken, variations on ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I’ve missed you’. Soon they’ll have to speak in complete sentences again, but not just yet.

“I’ve totally ruined my eye makeup,” Caroline says, and Elena pulls away to throw her head back and laugh.

“Look at you,” Elena says. “You’re going to look like this forever. Seventeen and perfect.”

“You grew up,” Caroline answers.

They look and look at each other. It’s Caroline who breaks the silence.

“Stefan knows nothing about Mystic Falls. I haven’t told him anything. He… can’t bear to think about it, much.” She turns her glass in her hand. “It’s only the last couple of months he’s been able to even talk about… anything. Memories, anything. He doesn’t even know Ric’s still with Damon, or even that he’s a vampire.”

Elena looks unsettled by this. Which part, Caroline can’t tell.

“Tell me what happened, Caroline.”

Caroline sips her wine and then thinks better of it, orders tequila. Strong liquor curbs the cravings better.

“It’s a little-known fact,” Caroline says, “but Portland is crawling with vampires. I’d been going out at night, patrolling, I guess.”

“Vampire Buffy?”

Elena’s fingers are tangled with Caroline’s on the bench seat and it feels so nice because Caroline had been so scared Elena would be angry or something.

“You definitely don’t want him back?”

Caroline’s voice is tiny and weak but she has to ask and know. Has to know she hasn’t gotten this far to lose him again. If Caroline thinks really hard she can feel Stefan’s lips on her throat, his hands on her waist, pulling her close.

Elena smiles and bites her lip and looks sideways, like she does when she’s lying or feeling guilty.

And then she laughs and reaches into her pocket. Slips a tiny silver diamond ring onto her finger.

“Matt and I are getting married,” she says. “He’s the love of my life, Caroline. You have nothing to worry about.”

The ring is just exactly the ring Matt would have chosen, too, inconspicuous and possessive and simply and perfectly there on Elena’s finger.

“Why weren’t you wearing this before?”

“He only asked me on Christmas Day. And then Alaric’s parents died. I wasn’t going to say hey, I’m here for the funeral, and by the way, my life’s perfect.”

It occurs to Caroline that she should say congratulations but when her mouth opens, what comes out instead is “Can I be your maid of honor?”

“I wouldn’t let anyone else do it.” Elena smiles. “You going to say congratulations?”

Caroline shrieks and flaps her hands and starts planning the Bachelorette party in her head instead. And then she takes a deep breath.

 

**

 

Caroline liked Portland. She liked Oregon generally but Portland specifically. She liked the distinct seasons and the people and she liked that she could get out to the state forest quickly to hunt. A balanced diet generally, large game, rabbits, too, though that was sort of horrible, them with their soft fur and big eyes. She supplemented the animals with enough bagged human blood so her instincts didn’t threaten to overwhelm her too often.

And she’d been patrolling. She thought often of Damon and Alaric and even Stefan, from Before, and how they protected people when they got a chance to. She was young and most of the vampires were old so she did Alaric’s trick, shot them with a vervain dart and staked them when they were on the ground. Only way to compensate for the difference in strength. She hadn’t killed many and she cried every time she did.

And then one night she shot a vampire who was about to kill a girl in an alley by a terrible nightclub and when she rolled him over to stake him, tears in her eyes, she got such a shock she bit through her lip.

“Caroline,” Stefan had said. Weak, in terrible pain. Both kinds of pain and no prizes for guessing which kind was the worst. “Do it. Stake me. I can’t live like this.”

And she couldn’t. She remembered when Stefan taught her to hunt, taught her to be a better person, a better vampire, the way he’d held her hair back and helped her wash her face while she cried, after she had killed the carnival guy, Stefan’s face open and kind. So instead of staking him she shot him full of vervain and threw him over her shoulder.

Not far from Caroline’s apartment was an old warehouse. It was abandoned, and dangerous, so no one went in, ever. She shackled Stefan to the wall. When he woke up he swore at her and called her a barrage of terrible names that made her cry and she washed his face and brought him rabbits and bagged blood and still he called her names.

Caroline worked her day job, taking photographs for the newspaper, and some evenings she took glamour photographs for people who would pay good money to have a memory of their best self, and every night, she sat with Stefan and cooled his brow and spoke in a soothing tone.

After he stopped swearing at her, he was silent for a month, and only wept.

Caroline was exhausted and shaky and her photographs were terrible and flat and she almost didn’t want to take the glamour photos any more.

And then one day she was slumping towards the warehouse when a girl who appeared to be talking to herself stepped onto the path. She looked to be about the age Caroline should have been. Native American, with thick black hair past her waist, big eyes, and a nervous expression.

“Are you Caroline?”

Caroline nodded.

“I’m Darcy.” The girl turned her head, as if she was listening to someone. She nodded, and muttered, _okay, okay_ , and Caroline found herself wondering if it might not be a good idea to call an ambulance. She wasn’t too sure about mental illness but clearly this was a girl who needed help. The fact she knew Caroline’s name made Caroline a little wary, too.

“She won’t believe me,” Darcy muttered, but caught Caroline’s eyes again. “You won’t believe me. But I’m telling the truth.”

“Okay,” Caroline answered, but she was doubtful.

“There’s this ghost,” Darcy said. Caroline only nodded, because duh, and the girl looked a little cheered. “Her name’s Lexie.”

Caroline grabbed at Darcy’s hand. “Lexie? Stefan’s Lexie?”

The girl looked alarmed. “Please don’t bite me,” she said, in a tiny voice.

“Lexie’s here?”

And Caroline burst into tears.

Darcy actually hugged her. A very strange day indeed.

Caroline and Darcy sat in a café for an hour and Darcy slowly translated all that Lexie said while Caroline took notes and cried a little more. Lexie had done this before. Vampire rehab.

“I’ve been talking to ghosts since I was a little girl. But I’ve never met a vampire before.”

“I’m an unusual vampire,” Caroline said, and noticed she as shaking. “Most of us kill.”

Darcy paled a touch beneath the rich caramel color of her skin.

“Thank you,” Caroline had said at last. “I should go. I guess… I have a lot of work to do.” She felt oddly reluctant. Caroline had few friends who knew who, or what, she was, and Darcy was oddly appealing. Her otherness, perhaps.

“Wait,” Darcy called, and Caroline did; oddly hopeful.

Darcy turned to where Lexie was sitting and listened for a long time. She looked back at Caroline.

“He definitely can’t get me?”

“He’s broken half the bones in both hands trying to get out of the shackles. More than once. If he was going to get out, he would have done it by now.”

Darcy sighed. “Lexie says I have to go with you. She’s kept me awake for weeks singing terrible show tunes. She says she won’t stop if I don’t help you.”

Three months. It took three months following Lexie’s dictated instructions and crying into Darcy’s shoulder before Stefan even made eye contact with Caroline. Another month after that he started to smile when she arrived. Darcy sat a good distance away, a couple of times a week, and translated all that Lexie said. Old stories, Stefan and Lexie’s past. Stefan started to laugh, not often, but it was such a good sound. When Stefan laughed his eyes always swept south, a little sad.

It was six months before Lexie told Caroline to remove Stefan’s shackles. Stefan said _no, no, not yet, stake me instead_ , and how it went from that to Caroline crawling into Stefan’s lap as he kept his back to the wall, Caroline wasn’t sure. She can’t remember, even now, how it was that her hands found his face, how she cupped his cheeks. She doesn’t know exactly when Darcy and Lexie left, only that they did. She does remember with exquisite clarity that Stefan’s lips beneath hers were firm, and soft, and determined. She remembers when he was suddenly, so suddenly _in it_ , kissing back, pushing against her.

“Let me take them off,” she had said, her forehead against Stefan’s.

He had nodded.

She kissed the panic off his face, moaned when he pressed his hands over her ribs, when those same hands found her breasts.

“Come home with me,” she said. “I want you so badly and you smell really, really terrible.” Half-crying and half-laughing, both of them.

Caroline remembers every moment they spent in the shower that night, scrubbing grief and horror and dirt from Stefan’s pores. She remembers it often and fondly. She remembers they never got around to dressing, just crashed into each other on Caroline’s pink bedspread. She remembers the moment Stefan was suddenly inside her, how utterly right it felt, how he didn’t apologize or ask what felt right or what she wanted because he just seemed to know, every moment, what she needed. How closely he held her, enveloping her. How she felt so real, for the first time in a long time.

She remembers how they came, arms and legs wrapped around each other, Stefan’s lips against her throat. She remembers it was such a long orgasm that she started to think it would never end and she would lose her mind.

For days they almost never got out of bed, forgot they needed clothes. They learned each other’s bodies from scratch. Caroline found the place on Stefan’s throat that made his eyes blur, made him moan, and Stefan discovered the spot on Caroline’s thigh that made her legs go weak and watery.

And they didn’t talk about Mystic Falls or Elena or Damon or any of it, ever.

It was fifteen months from the night Caroline had found Stefan in the alley and they were nestled together on the couch, sweat-slicked skin starting to dry, every inch of their flesh pressed together, and Stefan sifting slowly through Caroline’s hair.

They’d had a long night even before all the marvelous sex. Caroline had taken about a million photographs of one of the meanest people she had ever met and Stefan had hauled props, held up light boards, told the woman there was no one in the world who took better photographs, and soothed Caroline’s increasingly frazzled nerves.

Once home, Stefan had taken all of Caroline’s bags and simply dropped them by the wall, and proceeded to remove her clothing, ignoring protests that she really had to put everything away, and kissed her expertly, first her lips and then her throat, followed by all points south until she was positively purring with her thighs closed over Stefan’s head. From there it had been an easy transition to some of their best sex ever, followed by the previously mentioned draping and hair-touching.

“I never said thank you,” Stefan said.

Caroline smiled. “You don’t need to.”

“I love you, Caroline,” he’d said, against her temple. “I do.”

And she had been so delighted that she’d said it back, one hundred times, with kisses punctuating every declaration, until the words were nothing more or less than the best kind of nonsense.

It was a little after that with his fingers still in Caroline’s hair Stefan said they had to see Damon and Elena and make peace.

A month from then was just right now, in a booth with Elena telling the story, leaving out all the sex. Caroline figures Elena can guess that part.

“You saved him,” Elena says.

“I think I do okay.” Caroline smiles. “I love him so much. Elena… I know what he did to you. I understand why you didn’t tell me, at the time, but you need to know… he told me. And he’s sorry, and it makes him feel sick to know how close he came to killing you that night.”

“I forgave him before I even got home the next day,” Elena answers, and Caroline sort of believes her, because they are both that way, a little too forgiving.

There’s a little more crying and hugging, and then all is right with the world.

 

**

 

Three blocks away Alaric and Matt sit at the Dog and Pony, Mystic Falls’ new bar, open less than a year. Better bourbons and better beers, and more to the point, it’s twenty-one and over only. No teenagers, supernatural or otherwise. Matt stares at his glass and Alaric waits because Matt will, eventually, speak.

“Do you think Elena still loves Stefan?”

Alaric is about to answer but Matt keeps speaking.

“I can’t compete with a vampire, man. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to.” Alaric nods at the bartender, indicating another round.

“I asked her to marry me on Christmas day.”

Alaric is silent a moment, and then his face cracks open, and he pulls Matt in for a fierce hug, a pat on the back that almost knocks Matt off his stool. “Congratulations!”

“I didn’t even tell you what she said.”

Alaric grins and laughs and punches Matt in the arm. “She said yes. I know it. Don’t let this Stefan thing fuck with your head.” Alaric shakes his head. “Can’t believe she didn’t tell me.”

“You were sort of burying your parents, Mr. - Ric. Speaking of. I’m sorry, man.”

Alaric shrugs. “They were old. In their eighties. They were ready.” This is true, but it still hurts.

Alaric and Matt are silent a while. Matt clears condensation off the side of his glass with the blade of his hand.

“Your bachelor party is going to be huge.” This, Alaric can do, talk about the future.

Matt grins. “Great. You and Tyler can work it out between you. Any cops or firemen show up and they’d better be there to arrest someone or put out a fire.”

“Not a problem.” Alaric laughs.

After another round Alaric suggests taking a hotel room for Matt and Elena because Matt won’t want to stay at the boarding house, surely?

Matt balks when Alaric pulls out a credit card to pay. “I don’t need your money, Ric,” he says, and it occurs to Alaric that this might be the first time ever that Matt has not tried to call him Mr. Saltzman.

Alaric grins. “Don’t worry about it. It’s Damon’s money. I’m a kept man.”

Matt laughs, and Alaric pays.

 

**

 

In the boarding house, Damon hears a variation on the same tale Caroline has shared.

“Caroline Forbes. Really?”

But Stefan won’t be baited. Wears a small, firm smile and nods once. “I’m in love,” he says simply. “Wasn’t looking for it. Didn’t expect it. But there you go,” and he pours a glass of Scotch. “She saved me, Damon.”

“Caroline Forbes. You spoken to Liz yet?”

“No. Tomorrow, I think. Got any blood?”

Damon is glad to hear this question because Stefan has to learn one day – and perhaps he’s learned it now – that moderation is necessary, that he can’t skate by on the bunny diet and expect not to turn into a monster. There is a small, concealed fridge in the library. Damon passes Stefan a bag of blood and Stefan pours two glasses. Passes one to Damon.

“I don’t know anything that’s going on in Mystic, Damon. Literally.” Stefan sits again, face quite neat and calm and Damon is sort of impressed. This is Stefan at the turn of the century, relaxed, slouching comfortably on the sofa, happy to be home. “Anything I should…?”

“Ric lives here, now. Here. With me.”

Stefan does look surprised. “You’re still…?”

Damon raises his eyebrows and finishes the blood, following it with another glass of bourbon.

“I’ve never seen you…” Stefan shakes his head. “You’ve never stayed with anyone this long before.” He laughs, a little soft, a little rueful. “Tell you the truth I thought you would have made a play for Elena as soon as… Well.”

“Elena’s a sweet girl, but Ric’s so bendy. Plus, you know. A vampire.”

Stefan actually chokes on his Scotch, perhaps inhales a little. “How the fuck did that happen? Did his ring stop working?”

“His choice.” Damon swirls the bourbon in his glass.

Damon holds Stefan’s eyes a while, a challenge and a little bit of a fuck-you, as well. Why so many people think this thing is some passing fad Damon will never understand but he doesn’t care, not if it doesn’t bother Alaric, and Alaric is pretty hard to bother.

Stefan looks like he wants to ask questions. Damon thinks for a second he might rip Stefan’s ears off, but instead, he mocks Stefan with his own words: “I’m in love,” he says, mimicking Stefan’s voice. “Wasn’t looking for it. Didn’t expect it. But there you go.”

Stefan gives a soft laugh.

“I hear you,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound the way it did.”

Damon shrugs because he is too accustomed, now, to people’s incredulity. In fifty years they’ll still be surprised and Damon and Alaric still won’t care.

“Has Alaric…” Stefan does and doesn’t want to ask.

“Has he killed anyone? No. And neither have I. Not since. You know.”

Stefan does look surprised, at this.

“You…?”

“He’s got a Thing. Thinks it’s _wrong_. Blah blah blah. He’d leave.”

Stefan sends eyebrows north. “He’s never slipped…?”

This is interesting. “Jealous?”

Stefan averts his eyes.

Yes, jealous, and that is intriguing on a number of different levels. Stefan is a little hunched over, thinking hard.

“Yes,” he says at last. “I suppose I am.”

Damon watches Stefan think, long moments of quiet contemplation.

“Are you moving back?”

Damon doesn’t even know what he wants the answer to be. On the one hand, he’s missed Stefan, no matter what he tells himself; on the other, the thought of adjusting to having another person around again is sort of entirely horrible.

“Caroline has a good job and her own business, too. We can’t stay long.” Stefan smiles as he says it but still, he looks a little sad.

Caroline Forbes, entrepreneur. How adorable.

This is about as much as they ever really need, to call the relationship re-established, and now they are content to sit in front of the fire and enjoy a quiet drink.

There is a loud, electronic beep. Stefan’s phone, a message. “Caroline and Elena want me to join them at the Grill. Look…” Stefan stands, crosses his arms. “Give us a couple of hours, and then join us. Alaric too.”

Damon nods.

After Stefan leaves, Damon stands for a long time in the library looking at the flames. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and quickly taps out a message.

 _Come home,_ it says _. Now._

 

**

 

Alaric looks alarmed when he bursts through the door less than fifteen minutes later. “Damon?” he calls. “Is it Stefan?”

Damon crashes Alaric into a wall and bruises his lips. Alaric’s response is immediate, groaning as Damon grinds his hips against Alaric’s, begins to pull at his t-shirt. Hard already and his dark eyes going unfocused as Damon puts his mouth against Alaric’s neck, there against the pulse point, sucking a dark bruise that will fade too fast.

“Fuck, Damon…”

“That’s where I’m going with this,” Damon growls.

“Not that I’m complaining…?”

“Sounds like you’re complaining.”

Well, no, it doesn’t, though the wall might be. Damon tears at Alaric’s belt and zipper and rolls his eyes when the button from Alaric’s jeans flies off and hits the ground somewhere on the other side of the room.

This is so _adolescent_. This is all grabby hands and although it’s hot, tearing at clothes and trying to kick off shoes, it is also inefficient. If they could be a little more sensible about it Damon would have Alaric on his hands and knees in front of the fireplace by now and Alaric would be screaming.

Another thing that is hot is Alaric’s tendency to vamp out when he’s turned on. He’s got his game face on now and he bites Damon’s chin, lapping at the blood for the moments it takes to heal, still pulling at Damon’s shirt, breathing harder now.

They hit the ground all at once, a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothes, unbalanced by their enthusiasms. Irritated, Damon kicks his shoes off and slips out of his slacks. His expression must be something to see because Alaric laughs, and does the same, immediately launching onto Damon again, kissing him hard.

“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t _see_ ,” Damon insists, flipping them over. He wastes no time in lining up their hips, and only spits into his hand for lubricant. Alaric barely has time to get up onto his hands and knees before Damon starts to press into him, gripping Alaric’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Alaric doesn’t care. Alaric likes it rough, takes all of Damon in just a couple of thrusts, pressing back hard. It can’t last long, not with the two of them so ridiculously turned on and the stress of the last week causing their blood to boil hotter and hotter. Alaric is harder than hard in Damon’s hand, the clever, sharp turns of his wrist timed to his thrusts. Alaric throws his head back, and grunts.

This is only part of why they work so well together but it is a big part. Alaric is reckless, wanton. He lets himself go, sexually, wholly present in all the things they do, when they do their thing; case in point, if he wants to bite Damon he does it. Loves being pushed around by Damon as much as he loves to push Damon around. Does what feels good and pushes them both further, and never with anything less than absolute want in his eyes.

With a half-strangled cry Alaric comes, hot jets over Damon’s hand, and Damon follows a moment later. It occurs to him, as it often does, that at some stage, they really ought to get the rugs cleaned. The perils of having a huge house and no one else to accommodate. They fuck where they want to fuck, frequently eschewing traditional locations such as any one of the perfectly serviceable beds.

Alaric lowers himself onto the ground, rolls onto his back. “Fuck,” he says.

Damon lies down as well. “Already? Right away?”

Alaric smiles, that slow, lazy grin that is as much Alaric’s as Damon’s smirk is his own. “You gonna tell me what that was about?”

“I have to have a reason? Maybe I just wanted to fuck.”

“You had a reason.”

Damon thinks a moment. “Stefan thought he’d find me and Elena together. When he got back.”

Alaric nods. “Caroline told him nothing?”

“I guess.” Damon runs the back of his hand over Alaric’s ribs.

After a long silence, Damon turns to meet Alaric’s eyes. “Is it…” He’s not sure what he’s asking. “Is it the man on man that people don’t get? You think?”

Alaric shrugs. “You did kill my wife.” He grins. Damon chuckles.

“We need a shower.”

They do that, shower, and when they are dressed and ready to head out to the Grill Alaric takes Damon’s elbow.

“I don’t care what people think,” Alaric says. Big dark eyes cool and calm. “Not Stefan, either.”

“Hot,” is Damon’s measured answer.

 

**

 

Over an afternoon of drinking and catching up, and then dinner, Damon catches Stefan looking at Alaric dozens of times, eyes narrowed slightly. Jealous, yes. Stefan doesn’t trust himself very much around humans yet and he envies the way Alaric sits so easily at Elena’s side. Stefan can only relax with a vampire either side of him, and it seems to make him sad.

Oddly, for a moment, Damon wishes Jeremy and Tyler were there. Bonnie, too. It feels remarkably like family.

Champagne is bought – the Grill’s very finest, of course, though being the only one it still comes in at a heady eleven dollars a bottle, and will give everyone not supernaturally immune a terrible hangover – to celebrate Matt and Elena’s engagement. Alaric smiles, a fond, lazy smile, and shakes his head.

Fuck, but it’s weird. The whole family thing. Only Damon and Stefan for a million years, and then sometimes they didn’t see each other for years at a time; no one to depend on or disappoint. And now a web, connections. Spreading out in every direction. It’s a little claustrophobic at times and also totally fucking awesome; and anyway, no one else lives in Mystic Falls anymore so it’s not a daily stress.

 

**

 

Damon and Alaric collapse into bed at the end of it all, after all of it. They say nothing, just let tired eyes drift shut, though they both chuckle at the fact they can hear Stefan and Caroline trying to fuck quietly three rooms away.

“You think he’s going to be okay?”

Damon asks this in a voice so quiet he might not have asked it at all.

Alaric puts one hand behind his head. “I have no clue. Nothing comes with guarantees, Damon,” he says. “You know that.”

“I just want to keep him,” Damon says. “That’s weird, right?”

“Family,” Alaric says. “It’s all weird.”

 


	7. 2018 - You may kiss the bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elena and Matt are getting married and Alaric is in a terrible mood. Damon prepares to yell. Elena suggests a bold alternative: try talking to him.
> 
> Later, an interlude. A sexy, slashy interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a fan of wedding fic in general, and you will find the wedding itself takes up about twenty seconds. Weddings are all drama, before and after: that's where this story is set.

The girl rubbing her breasts on Alaric’s face is not the weirdest thing about this scene, though it reminds Damon they really need to get back to Mardi Gras again next year. No. The weirdest thing about this scene is that Alaric looks like he wants to die.

“Why does he have his eyes closed?” Tyler leans toward Damon as he speaks. “I mean, she’s hot, right? Smoking.”

Damon smirks. “I have no idea.”

Tyler watches for a few more moments. “He still likes girls, right?”

Damon grins.

The girl looks a little bemused, but it’s time for her to turn her attentions back to Matt anyway. Alaric looks relieved, immediately climbs off the chair and returns to his drink, slipping onto the couch next to Damon.

“The fuck was that?”

Alaric shakes his head. “I’ve never got the stripper thing. Really. What’s the point, if you can’t touch?”

The boarding house is full of all of Matt’s friends, a few Mystic Falls locals, more booze than usual and half a dozen barely dressed women. Bachelor party. Technically arranged by Tyler and Alaric though Damon selected the strippers. Carefully. He spent most of an afternoon doing it and feels he’s done a pretty decent job overall. Nice. The key, of course, is diversity. Careful contemplation of skin color, hair color, breast size, leg length, all these things contribute to the overall perfection of the orgy of flesh in the room.

The music is decent indie rock and everyone’s behaving reasonably well. Cool. Alaric still looks mortified. Hilarious. Damon elbows him in the ribs.

“Fucking prude.”

Alaric snarls. “Fuck you.”

Damon bites back a laugh. Alaric’s eyes flash darkly.

Damon crooks his finger at a tall girl, so black she could have been cut from ebony, and she smiles. Crosses the room graceful as a cat and straddles Damon on the couch.

“Fuck,” Alaric says. “I’m gonna go. Find something else to do.” He’s off the couch and almost out of the living room when Damon calls him back, the girl writhing in his lap.

“If you have to go rub one out, think of me,” he says, airily. Tyler laughs. Alaric does not.

 

**

 

Hours later the boarding house has finally emptied out. Alaric is stomping around with a dark look on his face and Damon is sick of it. “You’re in a mood.”

Alaric loads a rubbish bag with red beer cups, and frowns deeply. “’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re in a mood. What? You’re supposed to be all yay everything, wedding bells. You’ll be walking Elena down the aisle the day after tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I’d forgotten.” More red beer cups. Why are disposable beer cups always red, Damon wants to know. The boarding house is covered in a thin sheen of glitter. Left over from the strippers. It’ll hang around for weeks. Alaric glares at it.

Alaric. Actually glares. At the glitter.

Damon rolls his eyes because after a few years, the moods are more or less predictable. Alaric needs some sense fucked back into him. The cleaning can wait.

“Leave it.”

Alaric shakes his head.

Damon grumbles. “We’ll do it tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”

“Need to clear my head, Damon. Just go.” He doesn’t even look up.

Whatever. Damon heads for the kitchen. Scrapes plates of deep fried crap into the rubbish, stacks plates and platters, and peers with some concern at the garbage disposal, which looks to be full of feathers. Briefly considers wandering into town to see if he can find anyone awake, compel them to do the cleaning.

Suddenly, Alaric is there, all six feet of him, glowering at the door of the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up. House full of bachelors, men pretending they’re bachelors, etc.” He rolls his eyes. “What?”

“I said I’d do it. Need the distraction.” Alaric slumps against the counter. He looks tired, on top of irritable and all the rest of it.

“You need to eat.”

“Maybe.”

Damon microwaves blood and frowns at Alaric. “You’re really not a lot of fun like this. Is it the stripper thing?”

Alaric takes the mug. “No. What? Fuck you. You’re allowed moods. I’m not?”

“Ouch.”

Damon returns to the cleaning, and Alaric drinks the blood quickly. Odd look on his face. Reaches for a bottle of bourbon on the counter and pours a good slug into an empty beer cup. Damon watches, but pretends he is not. Ties a garbage bag closed as Alaric empties the cup quickly, and wipes his hand over his mouth.

“You want to talk about it?”

Alaric shakes his head. “No. Let’s just go to bed.”

Fortunately Alaric’s shitty mood doesn’t seem to be a result of anything Damon has done. It’s not overly long or memorable, but they fuck with the usual vigor and plenty of kissing. Alaric bites into Damon’s shoulder, as he is prone to do, and Damon winces, and moans, arms tight around Alaric’s body. Alaric seems calmer, then.

Full of alcohol, and a little worn out, they sleep, longer than they generally do.

 

**

 

The following morning Damon and Alaric share out chores, with Stefan, Tyler and Jeremy. The wedding will be held at the boarding house, or rather, on the grounds; there’s a tent to erect (ha! Erect! Damon finds himself hilarious, even if no one else does), chairs to set out. Caroline will be draping the chairs in something terribly frilly, once that’s done, and fuck, whose idea was it to do this here?

Oh, right. Damon offered.

Alaric is such a bad mood even Jeremy and Tyler are looking at him sideways. Alaric takes his list, and heads out the door. He has a fuckload of flowers to pick up, and this is hilarious to Damon, though perhaps not to Alaric.

“Fun,” says Damon.

“Scary,” is Jeremy’s answer. “What’s with him?”

“Pre-menstrual? Not sure. Come help me ‘erect the tent’.” Damon grins. Tyler mutters something about Damon being twelve, and that’s when Damon realizes.

“You’re getting old, Tyler. What’s with that?” It occurs to Damon a good eight seconds later that this could have been more tactfully put but truly, Jeremy and Tyler should be looking pretty pervy by now; and they’re not.

“Still younger than you, dude.”

“Dude? Really? Dude?”

Tyler stomps away to collect bags of ropes and pegs to string the tent up, while Jeremy crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.

This day has sort of sucked so far and Damon debates, briefly, going back to bed, leaving everyone else to do the work, or calling one of the strippers back for a nooner. All of these is likely to get him into trouble. So, fuck it, a wedding.

Jeremy pulls Damon aside. “Werewolves age.”

Damon shakes his head, though okay, he didn’t know this. “Good for them. Vampires _don’t_. He’s still both, right?”

“More werewolf than vampire. And stop being a dick. Maybe that’s why Alaric’s pissed.”

Jeremy heads out to help Tyler with the tent and Damon mutters irritably. When he looks up, only Stefan is left.

“What _is_ wrong with Alaric?”

He looks all level-headed and concerned, and it makes Damon want to punch him.

“No fucking clue.”

“You’re supposed to. You know. Talk. When your partner’s pissed or upset or whatever he is.”

“Partner? Very politically correct of you, brother.”

Okay so maybe he is being a dick. While Stefan starts on the tent with the others Damon taps out a quick text.

_Hilarious: Tyler’s getting old. A couple more years and he’ll be older than me. Ten, and he’ll be older than *you*._

It takes over an hour to get the tent up, but it looks nice, if you’re into that sort of thing. The dance floor is next, has to be laid out and stabilized. Then the chairs on top of that, about a hundred and fifty of them (this, apparently, is what passes for a small wedding these days; pfft, whatever) and by early afternoon, Caroline is there with acres of soft fabric that she drapes over the backs of them. All looking a bit fairy-tale-esque, by then.

Caroline is settled, now, happy and comfortable with Stefan. Stefan is still a little awkward around humans, but seems to be doing okay anyway. It appears Caroline’s only regret right now is that she can’t be the photographer and the maid of honor at the same time.

She beams at Damon, admiring her own handiwork. “When are the flowers being delivered?”

“They’re not. Ric’s picking them up. Mystic Falls doesn’t have enough flowers. He has to head further out.” Another text.

_Caroline needs the flowers. How much longer?_

Over the next hour the kitchen fills up with cooks doing early food preparation. Alaric’s car is conspicuously absent from the driveway. Still no response.

Fuck.

Caroline looks concerned.

“Come on. What else?”

Caroline shrugs. “The speakers. The tables, I guess, for the food, and the bar…”

It takes Alaric another hour to get back to the boarding house with a car full of flowers and his face still dark. Caroline shows him the length to cut the stems and Alaric does it, perfectly, neatly, quickly, tying up the stems with an almost frightening efficiency. They are arranged into buckets and placed in the cold basement, to be looped over the backs of the chairs in the morning.

Suits everyone just fine. No one has to face Alaric’s storm cloud face, and Caroline gets her perfectly tied bows and her perfectly set arrangements.

(Like most things he does, Alaric sets out to perfect it, perfects it, and follows through. Damon is more like, if it’s easy or fun it’s worth doing well; if it’s boring or he doesn’t grasp it immediately, he can’t be bothered. Always was like that. With everything, save the piano, which brought him peace like few other things ever had.)

Around five Alaric excuses himself to drive the three-hour round trip to Charlottesville to collect Bonnie from the airport, and the relief in the air is almost palpable.

Caroline sidles up to Damon. “Maybe Elena should talk to him. He’s like putty in her hands.”

“He’s fine,” Damon sneers.

What he’s thinking is she doesn’t even need to know.

 

**

 

When Alaric and Bonnie arrive at the boarding house Bonnie is squealing, pleased. She hasn’t seen her friends in a couple of years. It’s pizza in the lounge, until Matt has to leave; he’s staying at the same hotel as Tyler and Jeremy. Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, etc. Bonnie will share a room with Elena at the boarding house, since she missed the bachelorette party. Stefan and Caroline are in Stefan’s room. Alaric is in and out all night, makes an effort to talk to people but his face is still storm clouds with occasional lightning. The ever present threat of thunder and hail.

Damon takes Bonnie aside, when he gets a chance to. “How was he on the drive?”

Bonnie shrugs. “Okay. He’s in a bad mood.”

“Did he say anything?”

She’s irritable, but she’s never been Damon’s biggest fan. “If you were my boyfriend I’d be in a bad mood all the time.” She frowns deeply. “What, Damon? You want to know what’s bugging him, it’s your job to find out. Not mine.”

 

**

 

The next day is exactly the same. Alaric helps Caroline hang the flowers in the tent and over the backs of the chairs. Does it perfectly, shrugs off Caroline’s praise, and then disappears.

This is getting boring. Really boring. Damon likes Alaric pissy but not pissy and uncooperative, pissy and uncommunicative. Not like this. He’s trying to decide how best to make his point; a mild staking, through the gut or the thigh, perhaps? Have to do that before he puts on his suit, but there’s time yet. Vervain in his bourbon, that could be good for a chuckle. An earful of abuse seems the best way to go but Damon is still hesitant.

Yeah, fuck it. An earful of abuse it is.

Elena pulls open the door of one of the larger bathrooms and steps into the corridor, hair and make-up finished but still in a kimono, and Damon can’t help but arch a brow.

“You absolutely sure about Matt? Because... I would really like to mess up your hair, Elena,” he says, lascivious, smirking. Elena is not amused.

“Where are you going?” she asks, hands on her hips.

“To talk to Ric. Sort out this low grade tantrum he’s been throwing the last couple of days.” Elena puts a hand out, grips the crook of Damon’s elbow.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “You don’t stomp like that unless you’re planning to yell.” 

Elena pulls Damon into the bathroom and closes the door behind them. He can’t help but temple his fingers. “Well. Not my smoothest pick-up line, but I guess it worked.” Why it is he finds Elena more appealing than ever, now she’s grown up a little and doesn’t look like Katherine any more, he’s not sure; though, no, he’s not really all that interested in messing up her hair. Would prefer to mess up Alaric’s.

A saccharine sweet voice chimes in. “Eyeliner, Damon?”

Ah. Caroline. Guess it doesn’t matter about the hair, no last-minute romp in his near future. Although. “Threesome before the wedding?” Caroline gives Damon a wilting look. “I’d have to check with Ric, but I’m sure he’d be cool with it.” He’s not smiling any more. Okay, so yeah, maybe a bit defensive, but to be fair, he is feeling rather ganged up on. 

Elena sits on a stool again, and it turns out, no. Her hair is not finished. Whatever. Caroline continues to pin and tuck. Elena is going to look like some sort of confectionery.

“So,” she starts. “You really going to talk to him? Or are you going to yell at him? He’s about to walk me down the aisle. I’d rather he didn’t do it with his game face on, so I don’t want him pissed off. No more than he is now.”

Damon rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his body. “I was going to... oh, fuck it. I was going to yell. So? It’s what we do. Fight, make up. Better than Viagra.” Brow low and dark.

Elena rolls her eyes. She’s impossible to make uncomfortable these days.

“When was the last time Alaric went to a wedding?” She has Serious Adult face on. Damon hates Serious Adult face. It’s like having a very young, annoying parent who is right a lot of the time, when Elena makes Serious Adult face. “Do you even know?”

Damon shrugs. “No idea. Not since I’ve known him. Probably not since...”

Oh, fuck. Fuckety fuck.

“...since his own?” Elena would be easier to take if she’d look pissed, or superior, rather than this cool calm.

“That’s... possible.” Damon narrows his eyes again. “Is that what this is about?”

“He’s probably having trouble thinking about much else but her, at the moment. What’s that expression you use? Res…?

“Residual human crap.”

Elena nods, an elegant slant to her chin. “Isobel married him. Lied to him the whole time they were together about having... a daughter. And then she left him to become a vampire. Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t ask him to turn with her.”

“Why would he be thinking about that?”

Elena doesn’t dignify that with an answer. “Do you know what their wedding was like? How much of this might be reminding him of her?”

Okay, she’s pushing it now. How would he? He wasn’t there. “Do you?” He says this, dripping as much loathing as he can muster, which admittedly isn’t much. 

“No,” Elena says. “And I don’t know what their marriage was like, either. But I’m not in love with him. You are, or you claim to be, when you’re not being a total ass. Ever asked? Have you two ever even _talked_ about Isobel? Since the first time? When you, you know, killed him?” She turns her head so Caroline can add more pins.

“Of course we have.” Sort of. In the most off-hand terms. Well, they joke about the fact Damon fucked her and killed her and… Okay, so, no.

Elena’s like a mosquito, once she gets in your head. Impossible to ignore.

“Fine. I’ll _talk_ to him.”

“Thank you,” Elena says. And then she smiles, and the room lights up. “Hey, Damon?”

Impossible not to smile back. “Yeah?”

“I’m getting married.” No more Serious Adult face; she looks like a little girl on Christmas morning.

Maybe that’s it. Why she doesn’t look like Katherine, once you know her a little. Delight.  The closest thing Katherine ever looked to ‘delighted’ was ‘deserving’. Katherine would never have taken time out on her own wedding day doing the right thing by someone else. Bloodsucking whore.

“That you are,” Damon says, feeling a little young himself. “See you at the altar.” He wiggles his eyebrows and quirks his lip.

Damon spends a long time standing in the corridor outside the bathroom and breathing. In, out. Unnecessary, but calming. In, out. Damon likes breathing. He likes heavy breathing in particular but that does nothing to calm him down.

Alaric is in his suit pants and is doing up the buttons of his shirt in front of a full length mirror when Damon enters their room and shuts the door with a soft click.

“It’s been pointed out to me that I’ve maybe been a bit of a dick,” he says, as Alaric tucks his shirt in, and buckles his belt.

Alaric turns briefly, and then back again. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “ _I_ have. It’s Elena’s big day. And I can’t pull myself out of this funk.” 

He’s struggling with the cuff links and Damon crosses the room to help. He smiles, when he sees they are plain, heavy silver with _D.S._ engraved on them.

Alaric actually looks a little sheepish. “You’ve got about twenty pairs. I’ve never even _worn_ cuff links before. D’you mind?”

Alaric’s day ring has a huge letter D on it. No, Damon doesn’t mind him borrowing the cuff links. It gives him an odd rush, truth be told. Makes him feel a little territorial, and more than a little possessive. He doesn’t say this, exactly. He says, “No. Whatever’s mine is yours.”

Their eyes meet for a moment and then Damon turns his attention to the second cuff.

“When was the last time you were at a wedding?” Alaric doesn’t answer, and it is answer enough. “Figures she’d be on your mind today.”

Alaric feigns casual. “Who?”

Damon hitches an eyebrow north. “I didn’t know Isobel the way you did. But I knew her.”

Alaric is about to object, perhaps ask Damon not to remind him. Damon cuts him off. Voice quiet. Eyes direct, though wide, he suspects, and perhaps a bit spooked, because he sucks at this emotional crap. Easier to tell someone you love them when you’re about to come in their mouth, Damon often thinks, and easier to _show_ them you love them by totally not killing anyone for, like, seven years. Talking about the big issues? Harder. “I mean, I have a different perspective. What I knew about her was that she was married, and wanted to walk away from that to become a vampire. She slept with me, she begged me to turn her. I figured her husband had to be a total loser, for her to want to get out that badly.”

Alaric looks even more pissed, but Damon takes Alaric’s jacket off its hanger and Alaric lets himself be helped into it, turning back to the mirror.

“She was a fucking idiot, Ric. She was a bitch and a liar long before she met you. It had nothing to do with you. If she wasn’t, you would have known about Elena. There must have been other stuff too. No one just lies about a couple of things.” Standing where he is, behind Alaric, leaning his chest just barely against Alaric’s back, Damon reaches around to adjust the collar of Alaric’s jacket. Totally unnecessarily, just so he has a chance to run his hands down Alaric’s chest, the musculature he knows so well. “She lied to me about her name, too, y’know. That’s why when St. Stefan asked me about Isobel from Duke I had no idea who he meant.”

Alaric meets Damon’s eyes in the mirror. Ah, yes. It’s there. He must have caught her in a billion lies, big and small. Damon puts his chin on Alaric’s shoulder. “She didn’t deserve you. She didn’t even know what she had.”

Damon turns his head, quickly, kisses that spot behind and below Alaric’s ear that always makes him shiver a little. “Get her out of your head.”

“I feel like she should be here, today. Not me.”

Damon shakes his head. “She has no right. She didn’t see Elena grow up. She had no part of her life, until she showed up to make a mess of it. You? You helped raise Elena. You’ve protected her. Not just in the way parents protect their kids. You’ve actually kept her alive. And _you’re_ giving her away today. Don’t let your dead bitch wife fuck that up for you.”

Hmm. ‘Dead bitch wife’. Too far? Maybe.

No. Alaric’s expression has softened.

“We can talk about it. Her. Isobel. You know. If you ever want to.” Damon really, really hopes Alaric won’t take him up on this. But, fuck, it can’t all be bourbon and blow jobs, he supposes. There’s something sort of cool about doing the hard parts, too.

(‘Doing’ the ‘hard parts’? Ha! Yeah, so maybe Damon’s twelve.)

Alaric relaxes, a little, some of the anger drains from his posture. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but his eyebrows look lighter, and one corner of his lip quirks north. He nods.

What next? Damn this adult crap.

Alaric steps away from the mirror, and yes, he does look better. Much better. Like the father of the bride, or something. “Fuck,” Damon says. “That suit.”

Alaric grins. “Let me guess. It’ll look great crumpled in a heap by the side of the bed?”

“Pretty much.” Damon takes a few steps toward the wardrobe where his own suit is hanging and is grateful once again Elena and Matt decided to skip the tuxedo, cummerbund, bow-tie combination. Well cut suits and crisp shirts. Very nice.

Suddenly, Alaric is in front of him. Their lips are an inch apart, and then they’re not. Alaric’s not going to start anything, no way, not enough time, unless he’s _really_ sure there is, in the name of all that is unholy, how much time do they have? But he kisses Damon, once, firm and determined. The briefest touch of tongue. The kiss, combined with the odd sense of having done something relatively emotionally mature for a change combines in Damon’s head and shoots a bolt of lightning straight to his dick, but he ignores it. Closes his lips once over Alaric’s.

“Thanks,” Alaric says. “See you at the altar.”

 

**

 

By the time the music starts to play, Damon is sitting in the front row alongside Stefan and with space for Alaric on the other side, admiring the bridal party (doesn’t Elena know you’re supposed to dress them badly, so the bride looks prettier?) and, for that matter, the groomsmen (Tyler really is ridiculously buff, has to be the werewolf thing; and Matt’s best friend from college looks like an underwear model). It’s not the music that tips Damon off that Elena has stepped out of the back door of the boarding house but the way Matt looks like he could pass out or vomit. Either would be funny, but he does neither, just lets the puke-face turn into a grin.

Elena, in a simple white dress, is glowing; for that matter, so is Alaric. Good thing, really. Only possible shot he’ll ever have at walking a girl down the aisle. No daughters in his future. He should enjoy this.

(Damon feels a stab of guilt, for a moment, but it goes; Isobel never wanted to be a mother.)

And yeah, Damon’s going to see what he can do about having Alaric wear a lot more black in the future. A lot more black.  Elena has her hand tucked into the crook of Alaric’s elbow and they are laughing, not at anything in particular, but because smiles can spill if overfull.

Alaric is awkward, when the Minister asks who is giving Elena’s hand, but he answers as he is expected to, and then takes his seat alongside Damon. On impulse, Damon gives his hand a quick squeeze. Alaric grins back.

There’s an awful lot of talking. It goes on for about a million years. And then there’s a kiss, and some clapping and cheering, and just like that, the baby doppelganger is a married woman.

Ridiculous. Fucking amazing.

 

**

 

The photos are unbelievably boring and the photographer takes about fifty bajillion of them. Damon and Alaric –  and for that matter, Stefan and Caroline – are horribly conscious of the fact that in ten, fifteen years, Elena and Matt’s kids are going to look at these photos and say “why is everyone else old but them?”, but they sit, stand, pose and smile for them regardless. And then they hit the booze, the canapés, and finally the huge piles of seafood and deli meats that make up the stand-up banquet. Surreptitiously, select guests head into the boarding house for mugs of blood; close quarters and drunk humans, combined with the odd sensuality of a wedding, makes for a dangerous combination, for hungry vampires.

The first dance Matt and Elena Donovan dance together is sort of adorable. Of course, everyone dances with Elena at some point. Damon dances well, always has, and it brings a spike of nostalgia, as he has danced with Elena before. She smiles and giggles and sheds tears most of the day, and is lucky her maid of honor is handy with a makeup palette.

Damon swings Elena around to where Alaric is talking with Matt. “Ric and I have a surprise. Wedding present.”

“Nuh-uh,” Elena says. “You threw the wedding. That was present enough.” She folds herself prettily into Matt’s lap. He looks rather exactly like someone who won the lottery.

Damon shrugs. “Your house. Your old house. We bought it. We’re the investment firm.” A hand on Alaric’s shoulder. Alaric looks happy, relaxed. He’d looked forward to this. Damon pulls a key on a red ribbon from his pocket.

“Are you serious?”

Matt is not prone to long bouts of good luck. Marrying Elena and being given a house may have used all of Matt’s luck up, for a whole lifetime, in a day.

“Yes. Serious.”

Elena throws her arms around first Damon, and then Alaric, and can’t speak; it’s cool. They get it. Matt shakes Damon’s hand for entirely too long and then trips on his feet to get to Alaric.

“High school teachers makes shitty money, Matt,” Alaric says, offering a very many pat on the back. “At least this way it doesn’t matter that much.”

Elena and Matt return to dancing, once they are able to stop falling over their tongues being grateful. The music slows down, and everything gets rather a lot more romantic.

Damon and Alaric lounge at a tall table close to the bar. Alaric watches the dancers, and Damon watches Alaric.

“We could, you know.” Damon nudges Alaric’s arm. Not sure what he wants to hear. Would it be weird? Would it not? Neither of them are prone to public displays of affection; the odd surreptitious clasp of hands, the occasional snatched kiss, but dancing?

Alaric laughs. “I don’t think so.”

Huh. Not what he wanted to hear. “What? Why?”

Alaric narrows his eyes. “Can’t dance.”

“So? I’ll lead.” This is silly. No, this is fucking irritating, is what it is. Alaric’s bad mood is quite gone. He has no excuse.

“It’s not my thing.” Alaric says this like it’s the end of the conversation.

“It’s my thing,” Damon argues. “Does that count for anything?”

Alaric groans. “Come on, Damon.”

“No. You come on. You can suck my dick but you can’t dance with me at a wedding?” Damon scowls. “Even Tyler and Jeremy are dancing.”

Damon bumps his hip to Alaric’s hip, his shoulder to Alaric’s shoulder.

Alaric puts his drink down. “Fine. But I’m leading.”

It’s awkward, and then it’s not; no one here cares. After a moment, Damon’s not even sure who’s leading. They just move. He is aware that their cheeks just barely touch, that the music is sort of carrying them away, that his eyelids feel heavy. Alaric’s hand feels warm on Damon’s waist, and you could not fit a lie between them.

Damon draws his head back for a kiss, then, and that’s not weird either. No one is paying attention and if they were, they wouldn’t care.

“I don’t say it enough,” Alaric says. Barely a whisper. “But I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

Ridiculous, fucking amazing.

 

 

 

 

_Interlude: Six weeks later_

There is a very long weekend spent repainting the Gilbert house – the Donovan house. Weird. In the car on the way home Alaric grins, and says it. “The Donovan house.”

Damon frowns. “Yeah.”

“I used to live there.”

“You did.”

“I wish you could have seen your face when you hit the barrier on the front door.”

“I forgot ownership had changed.” Damon grins. “Fuck you.”

They park in the driveway at the boarding house.

Inside, they quickly find their way to the library for large glasses of bourbon. Damon pours, and Alaric slumps into the couch. One deep sip, and yes, he’ll need to eat tonight – but later – it’s enough to take the edge of the cravings, anyway.

Unexpectedly, Damon climbs on top of Alaric, settling between his legs, lining their bodies up perfectly, lips inches apart.

Alaric waits, half a smile on his face. Damon can be inscrutable.

“I actually had fun. Painting that fucking house.” He’s frowning, thinking. Pale eyes flashing.

Alaric puts his glass on the ground and pulls Damon in, a hand around the back of Damon’s neck. Messy kisses, all want and need. Damon’s lips, Damon’s tongue. All things Damon.

Alaric’s lips swell, his eyelids go heavy. Fuck-me eyes, Damon calls them. “You sound surprised.”

Alaric shifts his mouth to Damon’s jaw, kissing across it. Up to his ear, into the crook of his neck. Damon is gorgeous, everyone knows. Damon knows. Alaric knows better than anyone because Alaric gets to see him like this, starting to unravel. Changing. Learning the world he thought he knew, so long, but didn’t, because he was alone. Surprised that a weekend spent painting someone else’s house could give twice the pleasure handing over the keys did.

Damon starts to press into Alaric, rocking their hips together. Claiming Alaric’s lips again. Pressing harder, until Alaric finds his legs are wrapped around Damon.

“I’m glad she’s going to be around again.” Damon leans back, a little, to study Alaric’s face. There’s a pattern; he looks at Alaric’s eyes, always, first, and then his lips; follows the curve of his jaw to his ear, takes in the scar high on Alaric’s cheek. He follows the same route every time he really looks at Alaric. Making sure he’s still the same.

Perhaps because Damon feels like other things keep changing on him.

“Me too. Family, you know.” Something strange and beautiful and a little panicky crosses Damon’s face. He’ll talk about it, if he wants to. Or he won’t.

He’s a little pre-occupied for introspection, just now.

“This couch is too small.” Damon kisses Alaric’s neck, the spot below and behind his ear that always makes Alaric gasp.

“You want to buy a bigger couch?”

“No,” Damon says, or purrs, maybe, into Alaric’s neck. “I want to go upstairs and fuck on our enormous bed.”

There is a list of things Alaric loves to hear. It’s a good list, and it gets longer over time, but one of his favorite things is when Damon refers to things as _theirs_. Not so long ago it was Damon’s bed, Damon’s room. Everything now is shared, time and flesh and the big bed.

Alaric tugs on a lock of Damon’s hair. Soft and black. “You have paint in your hair. I could help you get that out.”

To the shower, then, to clean paint off their faces and out of their hair. They know each other’s bodies intimately, now, better than that, even, but lose long moments to fresh exploration anyway; Alaric takes Damon’s dick, and his own, in hand, kneads them together while Damon leans against the cool tile, one hand on Alaric’s shoulder. Soap suds slowly disappearing under the steam.

Alaric steps forward, pressing Damon against the wall. Loves Damon like this, lost to hedonism, lost to lust; his hot mouth hungry against Alaric’s mouth, their bodies, exceptionally fine bodies, molded together, chest to hip. Alaric gets the urge to vamp out, but he tamps it back, kissing down Damon’s neck, across his collar bone. Close, so close, and then not any more; Damon shoots hot jets between their bodies and Alaric follows moments later.

“Damon,” Alaric says, and has nothing to follow up with. Damon looks drunk, drapes himself against Alaric’s body.

It’s a little strange, slow for them. On the bed they lose long moments to spreading kisses across every inch of flesh, remembering favorite places and forgotten erogenous zones. Hard again quickly and ready and aching and denying each other satisfaction, because they can, because they can do this for hours. Alaric lies on his stomach for a good many minutes with Damon’s fingers exploring the musculature of his back, fingers pressing into the hollows of bone and flesh. Damon flips him over again, and it’s more kissing, Alaric’s mouth, his nipples, his hips. Over the scars Alaric wears, there, a year of bites when Alaric was still human, Damon lets his teeth sink in, laps and sucks at the blood that seeps from the wound.

Damon seals his mouth, too strong, too hot and hungry, over Alaric’s cock, taking all of him, sucking to hard to be believed. Magnificent. Alaric tangles his fingers in Damon’s hair, anchoring him. Fucks up into Damon’s mouth because Damon has no need to breathe and because Alaric can’t _not_.

And then Damon shifts, again, needs Alaric’s mouth, again, apparently, which suits Alaric just fine. They kiss with no small degree of ferocity, bodies rolling together in one perfect line, wrapped hard around each other.

Damon mutters quiet expletives and variations on Alaric’s name, when his mouth is not otherwise occupied. He straddles Alaric’s body, sinking down over Alaric’s cock, soon seated fully and full hard and hot and Alaric thrusts up, because, because. And Damon begins a slow stroke over his own erection, harder than hard.

Family, a chosen family. A partner. Everything shared. Not alone any more, maybe ever again.

This position is fantastic, watching Damon’s face change, half drunk with lust. The pace increases. Alaric grips Damon’s hips, hard, and quickly shifts one hand to press against Damon’s chest, to hold him in place.

No one here but Damon and Alaric.

Fucking fantastic.

Maybe it’s minutes and maybe it’s hours but when Damon’s eyes flutter shut, when his neck can’t hold his head up any more, when he comes so hard it hits Alaric’s lip (and Alaric sends his tongue south to lick it away, because, because) Alaric spills, too, filling Damon with all he has.

Long moments later, Damon spreads himself out across Alaric’s body. Weighing Alaric down, tethering him.

He has something on his mind.

“I never thought my life might look like this.”

Alaric is unsure which part Damon is referring to, exactly; but that’s cool. Damon will explain, if he wants to, or he won’t. Alaric runs huge hands over Damon’s back, his shoulders. Scratches into Damon’s back. “Like really good porn?”

That gets a chuckle, as Alaric knew it would, and Damon goes back to nipping at Alaric’s neck. “That was never in question. My life has always looked like really good porn.” He has a hand on Alaric’s face, turning it up to be kissed again; full of kisses, right now, they both are. They can’t stop touching, moving. The pads of fingers trace over favorite dips and planes.

“Like this,” Damon says, and settles himself against Alaric’s body, his head resting on Alaric’s shoulder. Alaric tucks Damon closer, and smiles lazily.

“We should have another shower,” Alaric says, and they do, but they stay clean, after.

Even impossible unbreakable monsters get worn out after a hard day’s work, so they let arms and legs tangle on their big bed and sleep, and sleep.

 


	8. 2019 - Compelling arguments for equality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a vampire means a lot of time on your hands. Compelling America's politicians to guarantee marriage equality sounds like a good way to use up a few months.

Stefan and Caroline’s wedding is as pretty as Matt and Elena’s, and there are a few surprises. Not the sort of surprises where people end up missing limbs, but enough drama to make it feel like a real wedding, despite the absence of a rubber stamp from the Great State of Virginia (after all, Stefan’s birth certificate says he’s older than the Post Office).

A celebrant, though. Guests. A big shiny white cake.

Surprise number one: It’s Liz, and not Bill, who walks Caroline down the aisle. Something they should have discussed with Bill before he arrived, perhaps, though they probably weren’t expecting him to come.

“You hate what I am, daddy,” she says, still just seventeen. “You didn’t have a whole lot to do with raising me. And I love you but you _hurt_ me.”

Liz squeezes Caroline’s arm, but there is never any danger of Caroline losing control. She is the best of them all.

Bill bites back whatever terrible thing he plans to say and simply sits on the bride’s side of the aisle. He hasn’t even brought his partner, and Alaric wonders, does Steven even know? About vampires, or that Bill’s daughter is one?

It’s a small side. Both sides are small. Hard to explain to many people how a pair of seventeen year olds – who were seventeen year olds eight years ago, too – are marrying. Only about twenty people total but Caroline beams like it’s a million.

Surprise number two: Stefan asks Alaric to be a groomsman.

They’ve never really had a lot to do with each other; they don’t know each other well. So when Stefan asks, Alaric spends long moments blinking and stuttering. Stefan frowns.

“You don’t have to. I just thought…”

“I mean…”

“You’re sort of my brother-in-law. That’s all.”

Alaric feels something cold spread across his shoulder blades; it’s true. He puts his hand high on Stefan’s arm. “I’d love to be a groomsman.”

Surprise number three is a Native American girl, very human, who Caroline introduces with absolutely no sarcasm as her third-best friend. Darcy. She shakes Alaric’s hand. “How long have you known Caro?”

“Since she was seventeen.”

“She’s still seventeen.”

Alaric chuckles. “Eight, nine years?”

Darcy flicks her head to the side. “Lexie says Damon totally traded up. Course, she doesn’t like Damon, much, so…”

Alaric feels his face fall. “Lexie’s here? What, she follows you around all the time?”

Darcy shrugs. “Kinda used to it.” She scans the faces. “Who’s a vampire, then? Who do I have to watch for?”

Alaric gives the rundown. “The hulk over there making sex-eyes at the overgrown puppy is Caro’s ex? Damn, they make ‘em pretty in Mystic Falls. And what about you?”

Alaric is bemused. “Vampire.”

Darcy looks confused, but flickers eyes to (presumably) Lexie. “He’s never killed anyone. Can’t be a vampire. Even Caro…”

“I made a choice. A long time ago. And how can you tell?”

Darcy shrugs. “It’s in your aura.”

Alaric doesn’t want to know about auras or who has killed who so he excuses himself, and leaves Darcy apparently chatting to no one.

He nearly collides bodily with Damon on the way into the boarding house.

“Darcy gives me the creeps, a bit.”

Damon bunches his hands in Alaric’s shirt and frowns deeply, pale eyes glittering. “I want to tear this suit off you and fuck you right here.”

Alaric only laughs, and kisses him. “Later,” he says. “Later.”

Surprise number four: when the guests have dwindled to closest friends only, Damon sits down at the piano. He doesn’t do it often. There is ridiculous magic in the music. Has to be, because everyone dances close in the parlor. Matt and Elena, Caroline and Stefan, and very interestingly, Bonnie and Darcy, though that looks disappointingly platonic, and Darcy seems to speak to Lexie as often as she speaks to Bonnie. Bonnie seems unfazed.

Jeremy and Tyler.

Tyler is a different person, these days, and Alaric supposes that it’s partly a product of time and practice, partly the fact that Jeremy and Tyler have a wide circle of friends who like to spread each other all over the Kinsey scale and back; it’s a long time since Tyler has heard some jock try to flush a band geek’s face down the toilet and call him a fag.

Basically, Tyler has grown up. Looks like any man in love, from where Alaric stands.

Alaric sits alongside Damon at the piano, facing out. Careful not to get in the way of Damon’s arms as he trips lightly across the keys. Damon’s shirt sleeves are rolled up, his elegant fingers giving way to slim hands and wrists that look almost delicate, before they become heavily muscled arms.

Why Damon on the piano makes Alaric’s face ache, he doesn’t know. Only knows he loves it and wishes it happened more often. Everything should be this good, always.

Alaric puts a hand on Damon’s leg, gives a gentle rub.

“Tyler and Jeremy should be able to get married,” Alaric says, before he knows he will.

Damon grins. “Where the fuck did that come from?” He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t lose his place.

“You should play the piano more often.”

“Nice segue. Do they want to get married?” Damon’s face is incredulous. “Did they say that?”

“Not my point.” Alaric shakes his head. “They should be able to, is the point.”

Damon shrugs, and returns his focus to the music. Alaric doesn’t know what it is, only knows that it makes people dance, and strangely, he wants to as well.

He can’t, of course. Damon is needed on the piano. Elena rests her head on Matt’s shoulder, her impossibly long eyelashes fluttering shut. Tyler is smiling against Jeremy’s cheek.

Alaric presses a kiss to Damon’s arm, and sips at his bourbon. Champagne has never been his drink.

 

**

 

They are thoroughly satisfied with themselves, aching and sated, and the sun is starting to pink up the room, when Alaric says it again. Alaric is propped up against the pillows and Damon is propped up against Alaric.

“We could do it, you know.”

“We just did it four times.”

Alaric runs a hand over the smooth musculature of Damon’s chest and stomach. “It’s not like we’re busy. We could just… convince the worst opponents to change their stance.”

“Are you back on the marriage thing?” Damon turns in Alaric’s arms. “If they want to get married they can do it in New York. Or Vermont. Whatever.”

“It’s not like we’re busy,” Alaric says again.

“For a man who spent years telling me compulsion is _wrong,_ you’ve gotten awfully liberal with it.”

Alaric shrugs. Maybe it’s a problem. It’s just… so easy, that sometimes, he’s not even aware he’s done it. Damon has said more than once that Alaric had compulsion down pat much more quickly than he did himself. “This couldn’t hurt anyone.”

Damon holds Alaric’s eyes for a long moment, and finally he shrugs. “Why the fuck not?”

It’s only two days later that they lock up the boarding house and hit the road.

 

**

 

The first politician they hit is obviously some sort of demon herself. She is a representative in South Carolina, and would probably ban sex out of wedlock, if she had the power to do it. A fierce helmet of steel grey hair and a skirt-suit that redefines utilitarian. Pity, too. Beneath her clothes she looks strong, fit. If she unstitched a little she might have a lot of fun.

They decide to start simple. Are able, quickly, easily, to make an appointment to see her. They dress in neat suits.

(Damon almost doesn’t let Alaric out of the hotel – what his thing is with suits, Alaric isn’t sure, but he doesn’t want to keep having to replace them when Damon shreds them with his hands to get at the flesh within, so he will be careful, once they get back there, to take the suit off and hang it up quickly before Damon can pin him to the wall. Or the floor.)

“We’re here to talk about marriage equality,” Damon says, with a curl to his lip.

The woman smiles broadly, looking from Damon to Alaric and back again. Condescending, disgusted. “Of course you are.” She shakes her head. “I don’t usually -”

Alaric leans across the desk. “Listen to me,” he says, with a touch of eye-flare. Her eyes go wide and flat.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re wrong. You’re wrong about it all.”

“I’m wrong,” she says.

“You want kids raised in stable families, by people who love them. Doesn’t matter if they’re straight or gay.” He leans further forward still. “Kids or no, anyone who wants to get married in this state, or any state, should be allowed to.”

“Doesn’t matter one whit,” she agrees. “As long as there’s love.”

Alaric suddenly feels at a loss. “That was too easy,” he says to Damon. “Is there anything…?”

Damon tilts his head, and then turns back to the woman. Her eyes have gone a little wistful. All this talk about love, Alaric supposes.

“You’re going to talk about this. Campaign about it. You’re going to make impassioned public announcements about it. You’re going to appoint the hottest homo you can find to be an advisor and you are going to make _friends_ with him. You’re going to be grateful you’ve had the opportunity to correct a prejudice.” Damon grins. “If this state hasn’t turned the corner in six months we’ll be back.”

Alaric frowns. Damon frowns _more_. “What?” he asks. “Not a threat. If things haven’t changed in six months she’ll be grateful to see us again.”

“I’ll be very grateful,” she says.

Damon gives a little shiver. “You are too good at that. Think she’d go make us a sandwich? You’d better let her off the hook,” he says.

Alaric doesn’t like that much; the idea she’s so vulnerable, now. He leans closer again. “You’ll do a great job,” he says, and then simply intends to let her go, and she is herself again. Herself, only better.

“I think the first thing I need to do is appoint an advisor,” she says, all businesslike. “Someone prominent in the gay community, but not threatening to my conservative constituents.” She stands, and shakes first Alaric’s hand, and then Damon’s. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do.”

Damon and Alaric are all the way back to the parking lot and sitting in the Camaro when they start to laugh. It bubbles up like a geyser and spills over, and they cling to each other. Alaric has tears pouring down his cheeks. They kiss, hard, but briefly.

“I’m starting to think you’re a fucking genius, Ric,” Damon says, eyes looking a little dangerous. “This is _fun_.”

Alaric grins. “You still don’t actually _care_ about it, though, do you?”

Damon cocks his head, looks up and away for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe I do. I don’t know. I’ve never liked being told who I can and can’t fuck. Don’t particularly like anyone telling me who I can and can’t marry, either. Come on. We need to eat, and then I need to fuck you in that stupidly large spa in the hotel.”

 

**

 

It’s in Oklahoma that Damon gets bored, and starts improvising.

They’ve been on the road two months, and making headway; the sudden change of heart of a couple of dozen hardcore opponents has got the protestors marching in the streets again, weaker middle men and ass-kissers (not the good kind) have started to sway.

Alaric has spent the whole morning at the bank.

Alaric took over their investments maybe five years ago and much to his own shock has managed to more than double Damon’s fortune since then. It had come as a surprise to Alaric but not to Damon. No, Damon had merely pointed out that anything Alaric decided to be good at, he stuck with, and besides, math came easy to him. The rest was research (which Alaric excelled at) and instinct (Damon never doubted Alaric’s).

Damon had shown his appreciation, though. Nakedly, and over a period of several hours Alaric can only really recall as one long moan. He vaguely remembers chocolate syrup was involved. Damon has a sweet tooth.

Alaric can manage almost everything on the road with a computer and the internet, but this morning he has to sign papers, so he has left Damon to his own wicked devices and headed for the bank.

It’s all horribly boring but over in a few hours, and Alaric heads back to the hotel. It’s nice. A Hilton. On this trip they are being scrupulous about paying for everything, and stay in nothing less than four and a half stars ever; but as Damon occasionally likes to refer to Alaric as the money tree, the cost doesn’t even register. Damon isn’t there, probably went to find something to eat.

Speaking of. They are low on blood bags. Better do something about that.

When Damon arrives he is a lightning storm, snarling and smiling, dragging Alaric to the ground, the thick berber carpet. Too good. He bites into Alaric’s bottom lip and Alaric feels all the blood in his brain immediately head south, impossibly fast. Alaric pulls his belt from his jeans, starts to wrestle his t-shirt over his head.

“No, wait,” Damon says. “What’s the time?”

“ _Wait_? Are you fuckin’ serious?” Because, no.

“What’s the time?”

Trying to will away a boner sucks whether you’re seventeen or immortal. Alaric strains to see the bedside clock. Awkward, from this angle on the ground. “Two fifteen.”

Damon stands up, removes his jacket and hangs it in the closet. “We need to be watching the news at two thirty.”

Alaric _breathes_.

It was just amazing timing, Damon says, and a coincidence; he’d been on the Internet that morning and seen that a politician – not the one they had come to see – was making a significant announcement about the sanctity of penis and vagina at a press conference at two thirty that day. So Damon had walked the twenty-odd blocks to his office, compelled his way past layers of security, and sat in a chair opposite the man’s desk.

“What did you do?”

“You’ll see.” Damon un-mutes the television.

The man looks excited, exalted. “Friends,” he says. “We’re all here because we have strong feelings about marriage equality.”

His advisors, his staff, to his left, all turn quickly, surprised at his wording: it’s always been about families coming first, that’s their rhetoric. One looks as if he wants to get between his boss and the dozens of microphones.

“I’ve talked about the sanctity of the marriage bond with y’all before,” the man starts, and his advisors look more relaxed. Alaric dares a glance at Damon, who is rapt, grinning like an idiot.

“Friends: I was wrong.”

It takes a long moments for both the boos and the cheering to die down. The man waves a hand, asking for silence.

“I was visited this morning by someone very precious to me. Someone I know is precious to you, too. The most precious man to all of us, even those who don’t feel His love. I was visited by God himself.”

Alaric feels as if he could black out. He can’t even look at Damon, who has tangled his fingers with Alaric’s.

“God came to me this morning to tell me I was making a mistake. That so many of us are making a terrible mistake. He said his answer was simple: Love is the answer. Doesn’t matter if it’s a man and a woman, or two men, or two women. What matters is the love. I will spend the rest of my term in office making sure that’s the way the great state of Oklahoma sees marriage, and I ask every one of you to do the same. Ain’t a one of you with the right to go against what God himself says.”

The world is murky and confusing. Alaric rubs his eyes.

“Any questions?”

“How do you know it was God?”

The man chuckles. He is a mountain, immovable. Moved, though. “When you get flashes of lightning in your office and a man tells you in a voice like that, you believe him. Next?”

Alaric scrunches his eyes shut.

Damon squeezes his hand.

“What did God look like?”

The man looks almost ecstatic, there on the stand, his advisors looking much as Alaric must right now. “Couldn’t look right at him, darlin’, but I felt his hand on my heart just as strong as I heard his words in my ears. Next?”

Damon is thoroughly delighted with himself. Grinning wide. “What do you think?”

“What did you do?”

“Do you really need a roadmap? I told him I was God. What?” Damon looks genuinely confused. “In a few hours every Christian organization in Oklahoma will be lining up to marry off the rainbow people.”

Alaric slumps into the couch.

“Are you fucking with me?” Damon splutters. Alaric turns, then, and looks at Damon’s face. All delight drained away. He looks furious. “What? Tell me why this is any worse than anything we’ve done so far. It’s a fuckload more efficient. That’s all.”

Alaric’s moral compass has never pointed north, precisely, it’s always been a little shaky. Why is this worse? Because he doesn’t believe in god himself? Doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter.

“Say something or I am going to break your teeth.” Damon’s face is dark.

Less than half an hour ago Alaric was being pushed to the ground, with Damon’s lips against his throat.

“No. It’s…” He lets his hand respond to Damon’s at last, squeezes back. “Whatever works, right?”

“Damn fucking straight,” Damon says. “Now take off your clothes.”

The next day or two are a little irritable and snarky, and Damon finds a dozen ways to prove he did the right thing. Points out six new websites – three of them national, three Oklahoma-based – dedicated to the conversion of Oklahoma’s most pompous ass, and the message from ‘God’ – love is all that matters.

It would be easier if Alaric could put into words why he is upset.

In Texas, Damon is subdued. Disappointed, Alaric thinks, and it hurts more than it should. They do what they need to do and Damon doesn’t even comment on Alaric’s suits.

“We need blood bags,” Alaric says, in Houston, in their gorgeous hotel room.

“We don’t have time. You’re in a shitty mood. Let’s just order room service, drink from the source.”

“You know I hate that.”

“I know a few years ago you were fine with it.” Damon’s eyes are steel, cold. “I know you’re going backwards, not forwards.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not. Stop pretending you’re human.”

This shocks Alaric still. “What do you mean?”

They glare, and breathe, and Damon shakes his head. “I’m ordering room service,” he says, picking up the phone.

Alaric is hungry, and with Damon’s eyes on him, he drinks a perfectly measured pint from the wrist of the man who brings their food. They’ll eat, because they can, and because they both feel more settled with actual food in them; but still they are irritable, prickly. Alaric showers a long time because he needs the break from all the glaring.

A long shower with very hot water and plenty of pressure has always calmed Alaric, and he lets his forehead rest against the cool tile, lets the water beat down against his back.

He’s not sure what Damon means, about pretending to be human.

It’s not that Damon wants Alaric to kill. He’s sure of that. He doesn’t think it matters, not the way Alaric does, but he doesn’t want Alaric to kill; only wants him to stay. So whatever is going on, it’s not that.

The door to the bathroom opens, and Alaric looks up, grateful.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Damon has his arms crossed over his body. “Why?”

“I’ll do better,” Alaric promises, and Damon takes his clothes off, and they waste a good long time together under the hot water.

 

**

 

Things do improve, they really do.

By the time Damon and Alaric have spent three weeks in Colorado, employing various approaches to changing the world for the better, their old rhythm is back. Compel some asshole, have a good laugh, go back to the hotel to fuck perfectly and enthusiastically, and watch the evening news to find out what the fallout is. The fallout gets better every week. Marriage equality trends on Twitter two days out of five.

Damon and Alaric are kissing lazily on the couch of a rather gorgeous hotel in Denver, all gold gilt and million thread count sheets they have ignored in favor of this stupidly small couch, when the phone rings.

Elena’s face pops up on the tiny screen. Alaric hits ‘accept’ and then puts the phone on speaker, right away.

“This is you two, isn’t it?”

Elena sounds like she doesn’t even know how she feels.

“What’s us?” Damon sounds perfectly innocent, though if Elena could see him, she would glare; Damon’s face is not innocent.

Elena is silent.

“We’re on vacation, Elena.” Alaric has to bite his lip, after saying this. “Do you need us?”

Elena stays silent.

“Say something.” Damon says this, not sure even that she is still on the line. “Elena?”

“I love you both so much. Come home soon.”

Elena hangs up the phone.

“That was either tacit approval or a big fat fuck-you,” Damon says. “What do you think?”

Alaric answers by bending Damon over the side of the stupidly tiny couch and fucking him until neither of them can speak English anymore.

They’ve been on the road six months. North and south, and heading vaguely west, just now.

 

**

 

Los Angeles is awkward and complicated and Alaric hates it. Los Angeles is possibly the most hateful city in the world. You can’t use any kind of intuition on the expressways, let alone the goddamn motherfucking city streets.

It is supposed to take twenty minutes to get from anywhere to anywhere in Los Angeles. This is a lie. There are small lies (‘I don’t even find your sister attractive’), big lies (‘It was only the one time’) and then there is: It takes twenty minutes to get from anywhere to anywhere in Los Angeles.

Are they really still trying to convince people this is true?

Alaric crosses four lanes of traffic without nearly enough caution and pulls into a gas station. He climbs out of the car and storms ridiculously around the parking lot. Damon is all too suddenly in front of him and furious, magnesium hot and focused.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know.” Alaric paces. “But I can’t drive anymore.”

“Fine by me,” and Damon takes the keys.

Alaric calms, when he is not behind the wheel, but he worries a little that his temper is a little to close to the edge a little too much of the time; so as Damon drives, he breathes and breathes.

In California, it should be said, Damon and Alaric do have an easier time of it, the hell of Los Angeles aside. The politicians here are torn. Marriage equality had been their reality for about five minutes, years ago.

Further north, then, and Alaric finds he _likes_ San Francisco. Grins broadly and often, as they mooch around the city streets. Street performers with bare feet and colored threads tied into their hair. Damon says Alaric should have seen it in the sixties.

Alaric grins and only wishes he could have seen it in the sixties. He pictures Damon stoned in one of the parks that dots the edge of the Bay Trail. No shirt, faded bellbottoms barely clinging to his hips. Teaching the hippies what free love actually means, playing guess-that-drug when he feeds from them.

When he says this to Damon, Damon’s eyes go quite wide. “Not bad,” he muses. “Not bad at all. We’ll come back. I’ll show you the places where I’ve made some of my favorite mistakes.”

They are in a coffee shop watching the world go by and snacking on sourdough bread they dip in dark olive oil. Damon’s finger traces patterns on the inside of Alaric’s wrist as he gazes out over the Bay, before his hand settles into Alaric’s hand.

Yes, Alaric thinks, we’ll be back.

 

**

 

The weather is perfect and Sacramento is full of people who know about wine. The tannin enriches the blood. Their usual affectionate snark has lost the irritable edge it had across Texas and New Mexico, after Damon suddenly decided to play God again.

Damon and Alaric are characteristically happy and naked and still breathing somewhat heavily, mouths moving slowly across planes of sweat-slick flesh.

Alaric pulls Damon close, closer.

“Where to next?” Damon asks.

“Let’s go fuck with the President,” Alaric says, and Damon’s eyes glitter dangerously.

 

**

 

Turns out, that is entirely unnecessary. They are still days from Washington DC when the announcement comes over the radio that marriage equality will be enshrined in law across every state by the end of 2020. Constitutionally.

Damon and Alaric stop outside of Lincoln, Nebraska, when they hear the news, over the radio. They just pull over and stop. They don’t look at each other.

They sit for long, silent moments in the car, unsure of what to do next. Alaric snakes a hand across the seat and closes his hand around Damon’s.

“We did this.” After he speaks, Alaric is silent for about one million years.

Damon is silent as well. His eyes move across the view they share, just off the 80, not even a real rest stop, just off the side of farmland. There is not a lot to look at. Winter has set in. It is ghostly and beautiful. Bare and dry. No snow, this far from water. Not yet, anyway.

The newscaster on the radio announces a dozen states that are changing _now_. Not waiting. California and Nevada, Oregon and Washington. Others. Alaric starts the car again and they drive into Lincoln, find a hotel.

Confused as fuck and unsure what they are supposed to do now, other than drive back to Mystic Falls and return to business as usual, they enter the hotel room like a pair of virgin teenagers, oddly awkward.

“I need to eat,” Damon says. Alaric nods.

“Me too.”

In the streets of Lincoln Damon watches while Alaric drinks yet another perfectly measured pint from the wrist of a tall, pretty girl with red hair and a sleepy look on her face. He sends her away with just enough of his blood in her system to heal her wrist and want sex. He watches as she goes.

“I can’t watch you forever,” Damon says.

Alaric smiles. “I’m gettin’ there,” is what he says, and then they find Damon a meal.

 

**

 

Alaric has his mouth full of Damon’s cock, the pressure perfect. Damon groaning and grunting, with his fingers curled in Alaric’s hair, there in Lincoln, Nebraska, when Damon says, “do _you_ want to get married?”

Alaric fights the urge to laugh, and only runs his lips over Damon’s fantastic cock long moments further, as Damon arcs up against him, and then swallows all Damon has to offer. Damon’s come always settles Alaric’s stomach a little, makes him feel more whole.

They are sated and relaxed, and now that they are used to the idea, they are more than a little pleased with themselves. Affectionate and solicitous with each other. All fingers and lips.

Alaric rests his head against Damon’s shoulder.

“I asked you a question.” Damon shifts one hand to run across Alaric’s jaw. “Do you want to get married?”

Before Alaric is forced to say anything, Damon’s phone rings. He makes an irritated face, but he turns it on to speaker when he sees it is Elena.

“You did it,” comes Elena’s breathless tone. “Didn’t you? This was you, right?”

Damon and Alaric meet each other’s eyes. “Did what?”

Elena snorts. “Don’t be stupid.”

Alaric has to stifle a laugh, so Damon speaks. “We’re on vacation.”

“Your route maps against some very significant social changes.” She sounds a little awed, a little annoyed. Left out? “And three visitations from God.”

Damon smiles, and meets Alaric’s eyes.

Alaric smiles, too, their secret.

“We have to go, Elena. We’ll be home in a couple of weeks.”

“Hurry,” she begs, and before the call is quite disconnected Damon and Alaric are on each other again.

Kisses that stretch over long minutes, two beautiful bodies pressed together and doing all the things bodies can do. Strong arms and legs, sharp teeth. Molding each other, posing each other into impossible angles and shapes yoga teachers will one day ask about. And on and on, until the sun starts to come up.

 

**

 

“You never answered.”

It takes Alaric a long moment to parse this; answered what?

It is midday, or close to it, by the quality of the sun moving in the windows. Damon is half draped across Alaric’s body, his ear over Alaric’s heart. The sun plays across their skin, warming them both gently, though the air outside must be cold. Alaric takes a deep, calming breath, and runs a hand over the back of Damon’s head. “Answered what?”

Damon’s face rarely holds only one emotion. They fight over his face. Alaric isn’t sure he can distinguish between the irritation, amusement and love on Damon’s face right now, but he thinks some combination of the three is about right.

“This whole thing. Do you want to get married?”

Yeah, that’s it. Alaric laughs. “I’ve been there. Didn’t work out.”

Damon climbs out of the bed and heads straight for the bathroom. A moment later the shower runs. Alaric lies for a long time, breathing. Half-remembering Isobel, though he doesn’t much feel like doing so; she’s just so very there, sometimes, suddenly.

Suddenly Alaric stills. Stops breathing, even. Feels a chill across his shoulders. Rubs his eyes.

“Asshole,” he whispers, at himself.

No. Really? Did that just happen?

The shower has been running a long time. Alaric’s limbs are heavy. Easy to stay lying back on the bed and wait for things to smooth themselves over. They would. Eventually. Asshole, asshole. Alaric stands and breathes for a moment before crossing to the bathroom. Bare-assed, and naked, too, in a way he isn’t, often; vulnerable? Not the right word. Not far off, though.

He opens the bathroom door. Damon is leaning against the glass wall, letting the water run over his back, streams interrupted by the knobs of his spine. He doesn’t look up.

Alaric takes a deep breath. Leans into the door jamb.

“Did you just ask me to marry you?”

Damon shrugs. “Yep.” He stands, and turns the shower off. Reaches for a towel. “And you laughed at me. It was fun.” He knots the towel at his hips.

“I didn’t realize…”

“What, you expected a bended knee? Have we _met_?”

Alaric cringes.

Damon gives a wide, bright grin. False. A little scary. “My favorite part was when you said ‘been there, done that’. Since I’m a hundred and eighty and I never have. But whatever.” He pushes past Alaric, through the bedroom and into the living room with its strange little kitchen.

Alaric showers, briefly, reorganizing his thoughts.

When he returns to the living room, dressed, Damon is halfway through a large glass of bourbon, and the storm clouds have departed from his face. He looks calm. “Want to head out? No doubt they’re still celebrating in the streets, even in Lincoln.”

“Damon.”

“Ric.” Damon waggles his eyebrows. “Don’t.” He smiles. It looks real enough.

“I didn’t realize. I wouldn’t have laughed.”

“Forget it, Ric. It was a dumb idea.”

“It’s not that. You don’t have a social security number. I have no idea if I’m even legally married, still, to Is. I -”

“Oh. Unlike Stefan and Caroline?” He sneers. “People got married for hundreds of years without _social security numbers_. Did you seriously just say that?” Damon shakes his head, getting to his feet. Tucks his wallet in his back pocket and his phone in the front. “These assholes talk about traditional marriage like they have any idea what it means. It used to be two people telling everyone who actually mattered to them, helloooo, we’re married now. A public declaration. Mead, if they could afford it, and probably an unfortunate pig for the spit. Speaking of. Let’s go. We need to eat.”

“Yes.”

And that definitely just happened, has to have happened.

Damon pretends he hasn’t heard. Shrugs into his jacket.

“Damon. Yes. Fuck it. Let’s get married.”

Damon’s eyes are wide but his eyebrows are set in a crooked line. Suspicious. “Why?”

There is no doubt a right answer. No point guessing what it might be. Alaric decides to just say what comes to mind.

Alaric puts his hands out in front of him. Placating, perhaps. Something. A peace offering. “We’re already married in every way that matters. Right? Even if we do spend a fair bit of time wanting to kill each other. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. Everything’s shared. Right?”

Apparently the right answer. Damon doesn’t take a step, but his face relaxes a bit.

“So, let’s do it. Rings and everything.”

Damon actually starts to look pleased. He doesn’t smile or do anything else so obvious, but his snarl is a little less snarly; he looks somewhat mollified. Slants his chin elegantly. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Saltzman.”

“Too late.”

Alaric crosses the room, pulls Damon in close. They need food, they do, and can’t have another go–around right now. Even vampires need a refractory period – well, after a couple of days like these, they do, anyway – but Alaric kisses Damon like he wants to _eat_ him, spreads a big hand over the side of Damon’s face. Damon often kisses with his eyes open, slate-silver to Alaric’s darker grey-brown. And he does this now.

Damon tugs on Alaric’s bottom lip, and then releases it with a wet smacking sound. He grins, then.

Alaric pulls his jacket on.

“You’re the wife,” Damon deadpans, though his eyes gleam.

“Fuck you,” Alaric answers, cheerfully enough. “I’m the one with the chest hair. _You_ are the wife.”

 

**

 

A couple of weeks later they get back to Mystic Falls, their groove well and truly back, having stopped in half a dozen towns to join the general merriment and to laugh at the miserable people still holding signs that read such witticisms as ‘God hates fags’ and ‘one woman one man for life’. They’ll get used to it. Once not so long ago you couldn’t marry outside your race, either.

They trip over each other on their way into the Gilbert- sorry, the Donovan house, before they even stop at the boarding house, because Elena is dear and they are excited.

“So,” Damon says, pouring champagne, the good stuff, for a change. He hands a glass each to Alaric, Elena and a very dazed-looking Matt. “Guess who’s getting hitched?” He makes forty different facial expressions in twenty seconds, his eyebrows dancing crazily across his face, while Alaric grins, leaning lazily against the kitchen counter.

Matt actually gets it before Elena does, chuckles, and shakes Alaric’s hand, Damon’s. “Congratulations,” he says, and Elena starts to shriek.

“Is that why you did it?” She throws her arms around Damon’s neck.

“Did what?” he asks.

“Don’t be an ass,” Elena says, turning to hug Alaric. “But can’t you… I mean… Don’t you need birth certificates and…”

Damon shakes his head. “No. We’re doing it the old-fashioned way. Binding of hands. Thought you might do the honors.”

 

**

 

Six weeks later in Mystic Falls, under a sky that threatens rain – dark clouds, moody and ominous – Damon and Alaric are dressed in their best suits and standing on the large stone verandah behind the boarding house. There are no flowers, there is no tent. Just their nearest and dearest – though Bonnie looks shocked to have been asked, and Alaric isn’t sure why – standing in a half circle.

Elena has been crying on and off all morning, reading and re-reading the words she will say as she winds a long piece of linen around Damon and Alaric’s hands. She and Caroline keep clutching at each other and if Caroline says “this is so adorable!” one more time, Alaric is afraid Damon is going to snap her neck.

It’s not adorable; that’s half the point. It’s simple. A binding of hands with the only people who matter as witnesses, and then a huge meal, which they can smell already, prepared by a chef hired to take care of the day. Much drinking and laughter.

But yeah, so fair enough, Alaric is feeling a bit silly. Unused to being the centre of attention.

Elena stands between them, a big smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

“Damon and Alaric are two of the only people in the world who can say they want to be together forever and actually mean it,” she starts. “Today, we’re celebrating that. Hold hands.”

Damon and Alaric’s hands meet in the middle, and are firmly clasped. Alaric feels like he should send a signal, somehow, something private, squeeze a little harder, but it seems at odds with this very public declaration.

Despite the distinctly surreal setting, this somehow feels much more natural than Alaric’s wedding with Isobel did. So fuck it. He squeezes Damon’s hand a little tighter. Damon’s eyes flicker over Alaric’s face, glittering, pleased with himself, and back to Elena.

The words are nice, but they are words. Elena takes the long strip of linen and wraps the first loop, the second. Damon and Alaric watch, occasionally making eye contact, but mostly watching Elena loop the cloth over their hands. Tighter and tighter. A bond, a pact.

Elena is still speaking, and Alaric hears the tail end; “As long as you both shall live. Wow. There’s a thought.” There is laughter, and in his periphery, Alaric sees Stefan press a kiss to Caroline’s hair. “Stefan, have you got the rings?”

Stefan steps forward.

They are plain silver bands. Alaric places one on Damon’s finger and Damon places one on Alaric’s. They look oddly right and perfect and seem to complete the hands. Alaric grins, and fights the urge to laugh out loud.

“You may kiss the vampire,” Elena says, and giggles.

Not showy, or over-long, Damon and Alaric kiss, and everyone claps.

It’s absolutely fantastic.

 

**

 

“We just got married,” Alaric says later, in bed, a sheet draped loosely across his hips. He studies the ring on his hand.

“Yeah, we did.” Damon is quiet, contemplative. Full of food, as they both are. “That was cool.” He rolls so he is on top of Alaric, again, kissing his neck. There is the quiet snick of fangs settling into place, and Damon bites gently into Alaric’s neck, licking away the blood that wells in the wound, for the brief moment it takes to heal. “Have to stay married, now. That’s the tricky part.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Alaric says. Because yeah, they fight, but they excel at making up. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Damon says it airily, but with his lips almost pressed against Alaric’s chin.

Sated with sex and food and bourbon, and maybe a little overwhelmed, they sleep well, curled together against the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY! Damon and Alaric support marriage equality. You should too. Write a letter. Vote. Find out about local and national action. visit fckh8.com and support the 'It Gets Better' campaign.  
> Haters are gonna look stupid in a few years. Fly the flag, brothers and sisters :D
> 
> ETA - AWESOME - June 3. This chapter got featured in an Inclusiveness and diversity newsletter!  
> http://paper.li/ISDIP/1310586003


	9. 2020 - No lesson, just a moment in time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alaric is creeping towards the first existential crisis of his unlife. Matt and Elena have exciting news.  
> Damon can't help but think about the past, and try to divine lessons from moments in time.
> 
> Or: family is complicated.

_March 2020_

It’s a cool spring morning, with the sun not yet risen, when Damon wakes to find Alaric standing by the window, looking out, with his shoulders hunched over; and whether it’s the hunched shoulders, or the fact that Alaric is still as a monument, still as a stone, not breathing, Damon knows the time has come.

Damon blinks for a few moments, and begins to breathe himself. Alaric turns, then, hearing the minute shifts. He meets Damon’s eyes, nods once, and turns back to the window.

“Ric?”

“Yeah.” It’s good, speaking. You have to breathe to speak and it makes the world make sense, breathing. Makes you feels connected.

“What are you doing?”

Alaric shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Come back to bed, then,” Damon purrs. “We’ll think of something.”

Once that expression settles in, distraction is best, followed by working shit out; they’ll do it, in that order. Plus, bonus, the kind of distraction Damon has in mind tends to incite a lot of heavy breathing, so there’s that.

 

_1879_

Damon remembers very little about 1879. Almost nothing of what was going on in the world, anyway. He was living in a rooming-house in North Carolina, in Charlotte. He hadn’t touched a woman or a man except to drink from them since his death (heart claimed by Katherine, and not yet able to distinguish heart from body).

He killed, many times over, not for any particular reason. He hadn’t thought, much, yet, about what it meant to do so; just, he sometimes killed when he drank and he sometimes didn’t.

That wasn’t new. It wasn’t new in 1878 or 1877, either; it hadn’t been new since 1864. What was new was the disgust.

A live human body is unmistakably alive. It moves under your hand, minute twitches of nerves and muscle, even the fine body hair that bristles; so it is not possible to mistake the moment when a live body becomes a dead one, when the last glimmer of hope leaves a human’s eyes. Even compelled to submit, they have that glimmer.

And so it was very early one spring morning, not unlike this one in 2020, that Damon Salvatore watched the light leave a young man’s eyes, and finally… reacted.

He hadn’t known it was possible, for a vampire to feel physically sick. He felt sick that morning. The thing he was holding – not a man, not then, just a thing, a slab of meat and bone and hair and cartilage, organs and connective tissue, fingernails and toenails, intestines, and suddenly so heavy – slipped to the ground, out of Damon’s hands, and he backed away sharply.

His eyes tripped down the alley in both directions.

No one had seen. They were tucked away out of sight, and the sun, though not far from rising, hadn’t shown itself; barely a ray penetrated the gloom. The young man no doubt thought, until the moment he died, that he was going to feel Damon’s lips against his throat, not his fangs. He’d had the cautious, hopeful look Damon could always readily identify when looking for a meal. A woman would always scream; a man was so afraid he would be seen for what he was, in a dark alley with another man’s mouth against his throat, that he was often almost dead before he could even acknowledge what was happening to him.

Why it was, that this one was different, Damon didn’t know then; and the memory is fuzzy even now. He remembers he crouched at the man’s side, unsure of why he was doing it, and turned the man’s face until he could really see it.

Just a face; handsome, but no more so than his last meal, a couple of days back, or the prostitute Damon had left dying in her own room a week before. Strong, but not particularly; shorter than Damon. Neither rich nor poor and he hadn’t had a talent for rhetoric, either. He had felt Damon’s eyes on him, across a certain square in town, and at that time of the morning, there was only one thing eyes like that could mean. He didn’t need rhetoric. He only needed to smile back, and the agenda was set.

He’d been wrong about the agenda. And his smile was long gone.

It was the stillness that really got to Damon. And the stillness was reflected in Damon himself, in his absence of breath. Damon backed away, fast. Walked quickly (breathing, deliberately) to the rooming-house he’d been living in to pack his one case and decide what to do.

That was Damon’s last day in North Carolina; he began to travel west. Felt as though the smell of the young man’s death was clinging to his hair and clothes. Everywhere Damon went, he was used to the weight of approving eyes on him, but now, he had begun to feel as if they could see further. Like blood stained his face or his fangs wouldn’t retract.

For a week, more, Damon didn’t feed. Perhaps nine days. The night he fed, he was so hungry, so hungry. Helpless against his appetite. He fell upon a lady and her husband and drained them both. Dragged them behind a tree and sat for more than an hour with their still bodies. Damon half-hoped he’d be discovered by some wayward preacher with a glimmer of rage in his eyes and a stake in his hand.

He hadn’t been caught.

He had walked back into the town square and found a public house. By the smell of the whores there, it wasn’t the nicest, but Damon only wanted alcohol. He didn’t even care what was in his glass, as long as it burned on the way down.

Two days later, Damon had carefully drawn about a pint of blood from a young man’s wrist, and sent him away healthy. Somehow, the gentler act made him feel a little better.

 

 

_March 2020_

Alaric blinks dully and crosses back to the bed, crawling under the covers with Damon. Damon knows not to try to pull him close. Instead, he puts his fingers against the inside of Alaric’s wrist, as if to remind him he has a pulse.

Alaric meets his eyes. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

Alaric is trying too hard to smile. False and nervous.

Damon speaks with his voice low, with almost no intonation. “You okay?” Not really a question, as the answer is very clearly ‘no’ – what Damon means, and what he hopes Alaric understands, is that he is asking: ‘are you ready to talk about it yet?’

To which the answer is still, definitely, ‘no’, as Damon can see. But Alaric needs to know he is seen, he’s been caught. Damon has noticed. Alaric offers another false smile. “Yeah,” he says.

Means, ‘I’m not ready to talk about it’.

Heavy breathing, then. Damon climbs over Alaric’s body, runs lips and tongue rough against Alaric’s throat, his jaw. Alaric groans, his hips rolling against Damon’s.

Storm’s coming, but it’s not here yet.

 

**

 

Alaric sits at one end of the couch in the library with a book. It’s his main pastime. Perhaps, Damon thinks, they need to come up with something epic to do. Distract him, get him out of his head. There were all those weddings. (As Damon thinks this, he turns the ring on his own hand.) And the road trip last year was great, arguing and griping notwithstanding. Fun. And something to fill the gaps.

Alaric has a serious problem. Damon has been watching it building for a while.

The fundamental problem is that Alaric hasn’t yet accepted that he is a vampire.

He chose it, yes; went in with both eyes open. It’s not the same thing, though, to accept that you are fundamentally changed. Not human. Not any more. Dead, in some ways. And that everyone you know, everyone you care about, is going to die.

Alaric thinks of himself as a human who drinks blood and doesn’t age; who can fuck all night and not get tired; who can drink two bottles of bourbon and wake with a grin on his face.

Alaric is totally incapable of drinking blood from the source without Damon there to watch him, more so now than in the first couple of years. The last time Damon convinced him to go out and try, Alaric had robbed a blood bank, and when Damon asked him why, he’d said it was more convenient.

“And if they run low on blood?”

“I’ll go help with the next blood drive. I can be convincing.” Alaric had shrugged, filling the chest refrigerator in the basement.

“You mean you can be _compelling_.”

Alaric had shrugged again, taking a blood bag, passing one to Damon. “I don’t think we should drink in Mystic anyway. We’re supposed to be lying low. If Liz catches a whiff, she’ll stake us both.”

“You didn’t do this in Mystic. You went into the city. You’ve been gone half the day.”

“It made sense.” Alaric had grinned his lazy grin, and headed back upstairs.

Problem with trying to win this argument, of course, was that every part of the argument was solid, in and of itself; everything except the part where it was time for Alaric to man up and learn to drink from the source, by himself, without killing, before the day came when he pulled a Stefan and chowed down on whatever was in front of him, until whatever was in front of him was dead.

Could be one of the few humans they both actually cared about. And besides, Alaric cared about humans in general.

None of this was insurmountable by itself. But in combination with the look Damon has started to see cross Alaric’s face, from time to time, the horror of absent breath; he suspects – no, he knows – that Alaric is about to hurtle head-first into the first existential crisis of his unlife.

Soon, but not yet. A distraction. A holiday? Fuck. Something, anything.

After watching Alaric turn a page or two, Damon busies himself elsewhere. Tidies the kitchen. Flicks through a pile of bills. He hears Alaric’s phone ring, and his ears prick up. Pads silently through the house to the library, and stops at the door, leaning against the jamb.

Alaric is standing in front of the fireplace, phone to his ear, a broad smile splitting his face wide open. He nods at Damon.

Storm effectively delayed, Damon thinks, and lifts his eyebrows. He hasn’t seen a smile that broad in a while. This is going to be one hell of a distraction.

“We’ll see you in twenty minutes,” Alaric says into the phone. Good old-fashioned Alaric grin on his face, higher on his left side than his right, and a little incredulous. He hangs up.

“What?”

“Did you know Matt and Elena were trying to adopt a baby?”

Damon frowns. “No. Are they?”

Alaric shakes his head. “Not any more,” he says. “They picked her up in Charlottesville yesterday.”

It takes a lot longer than twenty minutes to get to the Donovan house because Damon and Alaric hit High Street. They buy flowers, champagne.

They stop in the town’s one baby shop and freeze. Row upon row of clothes and thousand-dollar cots and toys, toys in every stupid imaginable color. It looks like a rainbow ate a whole lot of ice cream and then threw up until it couldn’t any more.

“Jesus,” Alaric says.

Damon agrees, but less eloquently, with his brow furrowed and no trace of a smirk. He does open and close his mouth, several times. “Maybe a box of cigars,” he muses.

“Matt and Elena don’t smoke.”

“I meant for me.” Damon looks balefully at a rack of the smallest t-shirts he has ever seen. They bear the pithy slogan ‘if you think I’m pretty, you should see my mommy.’

A shop assistant offers to help, and Damon elbows Alaric in the ribs. “Let’s just give them cash.”

Alaric shakes his head. “They’d never accept it.”

“We’ll take a gift voucher,” Damon tells the woman. She looks rather like an over-sized baby herself. Damon imagines it is supposed to be soothing but pink ruffles have never been his thing. In combination with the halo of fluffy blonde hair it is quite horrifying. Though she has a tiny waist, and an apple butt.

Damon likes apple butts.

She leads them to the counter. “How much?” she asks. Damon narrows his eyes at Alaric. “Five? Ten?”

“It’s Elena and Matt,” Alaric agrees. “Ten.”

The woman looks less impressed.

“Ten thousand,” Damon says.

The woman looks like her insides are going to fall out of her vagina. She can’t quite breathe. “Ten thousand dollars?”

“Ten thousand rubles,” Damon says. “Yes, ten thousand dollars.”

“Gift vouchers come in hundred-dollar increments,” she says, when she can speak again. “Maximum.”

In the end they set up an account, and take ten vouchers away with them. Alaric grins all the way to the Donovan house.

“A baby,” he says. “Fuckin’ cool, man,” and he shakes his head. Looks altogether too much like Alaric.

Damon shouldn’t be relieved. This will be a temporary reprieve. And the coming storm is necessary.

Still, he is relieved.

 

**

 

Elena and Matt look five years older, and five years younger, too, so it all evens out. Elena hugs Alaric first, then Damon, and squeals over the flowers, and feigns indignation at the gift vouchers; she knows they don’t lack for money, though, and since she will be off work for a while, she is grateful.

“We called her Jenna,” she admits, and the look she flashes Alaric is almost regretful.

Matt hovers over the crib. Besotted.

“Jenna,” Alaric breathes. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

Jenna and Alaric were a flash in the pan. Once Damon had his hands on Alaric Jenna had rolled her eyes and wished them well; still she and Alaric had been close friends, up to the moment she died, and Damon knows the memory stings. Alaric reaches for Jenna’s hand and her tiny fingers close over one of his.

“Six months?” Fuck. It’s like he knows what he’s talking about. Even Elena looks impressed. Alaric is grinning, and Damon watches carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets.

Elena nods. “She’s been in hospital since she was born, and she’s a little small. But six months.”

“She’s healthy now, though.” Alaric doesn’t sound worried; just sounds like it is the most important thing imaginable. Little girl with her hand clutched tight over the finger of someone who will, no question, lay his life down for her.

Fuck. Damon wishes he hadn’t let himself think that.

Alaric’s eyes on Jenna are almost too much to take, so Damon does his best to ruin the moment. “Shooting blanks, Donovan?” he asks, but nothing can spoil Matt’s mood.

“We didn’t think it was a good idea to have our own,” he says. “This way, we know Elena is the last Petrova.” He shrugs. “What do I care? I still get a family out of it. Jenna’s still my daughter.”

“May I?” Alaric asks, arms already reaching, and Elena giggles.

Alaric, it should be said, appears to know what he is doing. Jenna’s eyes are open and alive on his, blowing raspberries, and Alaric picks her up like some kind of freaking baby whisperer, one hand behind her head, the other supporting her weight. Up against his chest.

“Don’t eat her,” Damon says. Elena splutters, but Matt and Alaric both look relaxed. Jenna thrusts a hand into Alaric’s neck, and spreads a tiny palm over his shoulder.

It’s sort of spell-binding, actually. Alaric has a goofy look on his face, and Jenna has stilled, a little, though one arm waves about. Alaric raises his eyebrows at Damon.

There’s a moment of confusion, before Damon knows what he is being asked.

“Nooo,” he says. “I’m fine. I’m happy to watch. I’ll pour the champagne.”

Damon doesn’t want to watch their expressions, but once in the kitchen, he can’t not look up. Only for a moment, but three pairs of eyes are bright on Damon’s, and one pair sleepy.

“You won’t hurt her,” Elena says, incredulous. “I know you won’t.”

“Of course I won’t,” Damon says, and finds two champagne glasses and two mismatched wine glasses in the cupboard. He makes a mental note to buy Matt and Elena some nice glasses. Pops the cork with far more gusto than necessary, and pours the drinks. Pretending, all the while, that they are not staring at him.

Alaric speaks. Of course he does. Alaric has no goddamn filter. “Have you ever held a baby before?”

“Of course I have,” Damon snarks back. “I had a baby brother, in case you’ve forgotten.”

 

_1848_

Damon has not forgotten, though to be fair, the memory is indistinct, now; graciously vague,  though it still has the ability to make him feel the remnants of something like fear. Sneaking silently into the room where his beautiful mother had screamed for half the night and then been too silent.

Damon’s father was collapsed beside Damon’s mother’s bed, wailing, keening, holding her hand, and there was blood everywhere. Like a tide. Over the edge of the bed.

(Damon suspects he exaggerates it now in memory because he knows, now, exactly how much blood there is in the human body.

It’s not a tidal wave. It can’t have painted the walls, the way it does in his memory. Six quarts, give or take. Not an ocean.)

The midwife had washed Stefan’s face, and wrapped him tight in swaddling.

“Your father needs some time, and your brother needs you,” she had said, and pressed Stefan into Damon’s seven-year-old arms. She had showed him how to support the head, but hadn’t explained why; at seven, back then, with a Jesuit father, Damon was expected to be able to manage most things, and this was no different. Skin a rabbit, hold a baby, recite his prayers.

Damon had taken Stefan to his bedroom and made him a nest of blankets. Fetched water and cloth and washed him, properly, all the blood and goo. It had felt good, to have something important to do, something which didn’t require him to process what he thought he knew, and what no one had yet told him: Damon’s mother was dead.

Damon remembers how his hands had shaken, so badly, so badly.

Damon knew about death. They’d lost cats, dogs, horses. He’d seen one of the maids, early one morning, only a young woman; she had sat down in front of the fire the night before and never woken up. It had been Damon who fetched the housekeeper to see if she could wake her. The housekeeper had taken him aside and said the angels had taken her up in the night. (Made no sense; she was Right. There.)

Clean, Stefan was just a wonderful pink thing. Wrinkled and tense, but quiet. Surely, by now, he should be crying. He’d lost his mother, too. He didn’t cry, though. Not for a long time.

Damon’s seven-year-old hands had wrapped Stefan up again. In his memory the hands are small and clumsy, though he thinks he did alright. He knows he pulled Stefan in and against his chest, once he was finished and wanted to sleep, and that he didn’t cry, because he didn’t want Stefan to know he’d been born into a world that had been ruined just as he entered it.

Damon, it should be said, was a dedicated brother.

Stefan’s first word – first syllable, perhaps, was ‘Dam’. Stefan’s first steps were across their shared bedroom and into Damon’s eight-year old arms. When Stefan got too big for Damon to pick him up any more, Stefan cried and clutched at him. They shared a room until Stefan was three years old, and after that, Stefan snuck into Damon’s bed if he had a bad dream.

If Stefan fell and hurt himself, it was Damon who picked him up and tended to his wounds. When Damon was hurt, Stefan cried, too, until Damon proved he was alright.

The women in church cooed at them, the little Salvatores, which was fine; Damon didn’t mind sharing, as long as everyone knew that Stefan was his.

Damon hadn’t had a lot of time human. Not compared to the rest of his life, anyway. But as a child, and as a young man, taking care of Stefan, the one thing he knew about himself was this: He was a brother. He had a family, and that family was Stefan. He’d do anything for him, teach him everything he needed to know. Protect him.

Damon wondered, often, if the reason he let Stefan convince him to take that first drink and become a vampire was because the thought of letting Stefan float around, untethered, for all of eternity, without Damon to look after him was too horrible for words.

 

_March 2020_

“You haven’t held a baby in over a hundred and seventy years,” Elena says. “And you don’t want to hold our daughter?”

Damon sniffs irritably. “I’m fine.”

He brings glasses to the living room and passes them around.

“Damon…” Elena looks confused.

Damon sneers. “Remember how vampires are terrifying monsters you don’t hand your children over to? I can see her just fine from here.”

The room is very quiet, suddenly.

Elena looks hurt, and Matt confused. Alaric looks pissed, kisses Jenna’s head gently, muttering soft cooing noises. “Ignore him,” Alaric whispers.

“We were…” Elena turns to Matt, reaches out a hand, Matt clasps it. “We were going to ask you two to be her godparents.”

Totally awesome. Absolutely ridiculous. And also, no. “Vampire godparents? Just drink your champagne.”

“I thought it made sense,” Elena says. “The whole thing about godparents is if something happens to your parents, they look after you.” She runs her hand over Jenna’s back, as Jenna has begun to fuss. “And you guys… nothing’s ever going to happen to you.”

Ouch.

“Of course we will,” Alaric says, and rocks Jenna gently.

 

_1904_

Different vampires, it seemed, had different skills, some more obvious than others. Damon could manipulate crows and bring about fog. Damon had met a female vampire who could draw cats to her side (a useful trick since cats were generally afraid of vampires and it made her seem less dangerous; it was a credulous time, and vampire hunters were not entirely uncommon).

In 1904 Damon was sitting alone in a piano bar in New York City when a man sat beside him and introduced himself. Damon had smiled seductively and suggested they go for a walk, pointing out that it was still warm outside. Damon found that a particular half-smile and a cocked eyebrow was usually enough to have anyone climbing over their feet to make time with him.

It soothed the self-loathing, a little. Feeling wanted, for the moments it took until Damon found a quite corner and drank from them. A poor substitute for the desire he’d so loved seeing in his Katherine’s eyes, but it helped.

“You wouldn’t find my blood very nourishing,” the man said, and called for a drink.

Apparently, this was one of those vampires who could spot other vampires with relative ease. Damon couldn’t do it, not if they were moving around and speaking, breathing; he had no idea if Stefan could. Damon went out of his way to avoid other vampires, generally, and didn’t feel like talking to this one; he didn’t feel like talking much at all. His plan in coming to this bar was to eventually take over on the piano.

Damon cocked his head and stepped off his stool, but the vampire took his wrist. “Stay,” he said, and there was something in his eyes that made Damon want to.

They were quiet, drinking gin together. Damon liked gin; it was subtle and complex. He couldn’t understand why people watered it down with sugary mixes. Tonic water. Even coca-cola, which was the worst thing that had happened to the world since Damon died. Terrible stuff.

Damon examined his new companion carefully. “Who are you?”

“Call me Paul.”

“I take it that’s not your real name.”

Paul shrugged. “I’ve had a few. Can’t stay in one place for too long, you know how it goes. I’ve been Paul a while.”

Damon wasn’t sure why he told the truth, but he did; “Damon. Salvatore.” They shook hands.

“You’re young.” It wasn’t a question.

“Are you asking me when I was born? Or when I died?” Damon shot eyebrows north. “1864,” he said.

“1788.” Damon believed it; though he looked about thirty, Paul’s bearing had something distinctly old about it. Damon tore his eyes away and sipped at his drink. “Tell me, Damon Salvatore. Have you ever killed a vampire?”

Damon was immediately afraid.

There had been rumors; though Damon avoided generally avoided socializing with vampires it wasn’t possible to avoid hearing rumors. Someone had killed several vampires in the city, and word was that it was a vampire. The killings had happened in and around Brooklyn, which was an area Damon avoided, a lot of the time, because he loved it, and it made him want to be a part of the world. Still, if anyone thought it was him…

“I had nothing to do with that,” he said, defensive. “They were all old, strong. You -”

“No. Calm yourself, Damon.”

Damon relaxed, but only a little.

“I need someone to kill me. I can’t do it myself.” He lit a pipe, and the chocolate smell was fantastic, swirling over and around them at the bar. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” He finished his drink, and ordered another, and then told Damon his story.

Damon had left Mystic Falls and never intended to go back, though it called to him; he couldn’t, of course. But Mystic Falls wasn’t like other places. Mystic Falls knew about vampires. He would have been chained up outside the church and the townsfolk would have gathered to watch him burn as the sun rose; they would have packed picnics, probably.

Sometimes, Damon thought that even sounded appealing. He would have done it, if not for the one thing that kept him tethered to the world; he would, one day, find a way to release Katherine from the tomb.

Paul had a very different story.

He had been father to four daughters, their mother long dead, when he was turned, and he drank because he couldn’t let them go to the poorhouse or be raised by his wife’s sister, who thought children should be seen, and not heard. So he had completed the transition and fed from animals, and drifters, and tried not to kill.

He had kept his secret, laid low, raised his daughters. And then he had watched them raise their own families. The lies were complex and had to change every few years but he was introduced and re-introduced to his family, over the years, as various long-distant uncles and cousins. Sometimes he forgot the name he was supposed to respond to but he got by.

No one had taught Paul to be a vampire. He knew nothing of the switch that was supposed to make it possible to just stop feeling. All he knew was that he had attended his daughters’ funerals, and had buried three grandsons, too, and he couldn’t do it any more.

It was watching his remaining grandchildren raise their own children that had made him run, suddenly, just run and never return. He had left California and never once went further west than Nebraska, for forty years.

He ached for his family, daily. Drank as little blood as he could manage and said with a degree of pride that after so many years he had killed only a handful of times, and only in the direst of circumstances.

“I don’t think I ever really knew, _knew_ , that I was a vampire, really understood what that meant, until I left my family behind,” Paul said. It struck Damon as strange. What was a vampire, if he wasn’t a man that never got old and drank blood to survive?

“Why are you telling me this?” Damon had narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me I should keep in touch with my vampire-hating extended family? Or that I shouldn’t?”

Paul had shrugged. “There’s no lesson intended. I don’t know what the answer is.” He puffed on his pipe, seeming to enjoy the breath. “I’ve been alone a long time. I have chosen you to end my life, and if you’re going to end it, I want you to know a little about it, as well.”

“You know, I haven’t actually agreed.” Truly, Damon wasn’t sure he could really do it. Kill to eat, kill because the blood is running too hot and too fast, sure, though Damon hadn’t killed in years. But in cold blood, someone eighty years his senior?

“You’ll do it.” There was no threat in Paul’s voice; it was a statement of fact.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I can see you were a good man, before you were a vampire. And how often do you get a chance to do a kindness these days?”

Paul and Damon were silent a while, letting the music wrap around them. The bar had filled up steadily and people were dancing close together, swaying. Lust spiced the blood up and Damon could smell it.

After a while, Damon sought his new friend’s eyes. He found himself searching for something to say. Perhaps he stared too long, or opened his mouth to speak one time too many, because Paul patted him on the shoulder.

“I don’t need you to say anything. Drink with me, a little longer,” Paul said; and Damon found he didn’t mind the company, so much.

They spent the whole evening together, and left together when the bar closed. They walked for hours through the sleeping city. Paul took his last drink, a careful, measured sip from the wrist of a young man heading home after a night of revelry; “I don’t need to keep myself well, now. I’ll be dead before sunrise. Still, a last mouthful.”

Damon had nodded, only, and stood a respectful step away, waiting.

The sunrise was probably only an hour away when Damon finally agreed, though Paul didn’t react; he’d known all along that Damon would agree, in the end. “How do you want to do this?”

“I wish I could see a sunrise,” Paul said, with a wistful note in his voice. “But since that would kill us both…”

“I can do a sunrise,” Damon said, surprising himself. It was a secret he guarded jealously. Any one of thousands of older, stronger vampires would have killed him for his ring. “But if it’s just a matter of waiting, you could do that yourself.”

Paul shook his head. “No. I’ve tried. As soon as the sun’s rays hit me, I run until I have adequate shelter. We’re like humans in that; we’re not designed to let ourselves die easily. I’ll drink this -” he pulled a small glass bottle from the pocket of his great-coat. Vervain tea, Damon assumed, and he flinched. “I would have drunk it and then had you stake me. But if you can do a sunrise…” He had looked almost happy. “And then I’ll need you to hold me still, once the sun starts to rise. I’ll be weakened. You’ll manage.”

“Of course, once you’re up in flames…?”

“You’ll let go. It will be too late for me by then.”

They strolled to Central Park, and the first rays were threatening the skyline, and Paul was about to drink the vervain, when he turned to Damon, and oddly, ran his tongue over his lips.

“I haven’t kissed anyone in a very long time,” he said, and there was a question in it.

Damon hadn’t kissed anyone since Katherine. Forty years. His lips held her memory, her impression. Damon wasn’t even sure why, but he let that slip aside. He leaned, just a little, and brushed his lips over Paul’s.

Paul whimpered, a little, and there was such need in the sound that Damon let his lips part. Just enough so they could press their tongues together a moment.

Something for Paul to take into the void with him.

Paul pulled away first. “Thank you, Damon Salvatore,” he said, and drank down the vervain. He coughed, clutching at his throat, just as the first rays of sun really hit.

It was entirely horrible, watching Paul’s skin sizzle, but Damon held him down, wrists behind his back, with his face pointed at the sun, so he could see it, as much as that was possible. It was difficult; Paul may have been weakened by vervain but he was still older and stronger than Damon, and Damon had to fight hard to hold him down.

Soon, the heat got to be too much, and Damon had to back away fast. He found himself clutching his ring, holding it tight. Fingers curled in a fist until the metal was biting into his flesh.

Insensible, Paul tried to get to his feet, but only rose to his knees. Damon couldn’t watch, any more, but he heard Paul catch alight, moments or years later, and the curdled scream his burning lungs couldn’t quite form. Damon didn’t even realize, until he opened his eyes, once it was over, that he had begun to cry; silent, but there, just teardrops spilling over his cheeks.

There was nothing left but a pile of greasy ash and a mangled tin of pipe tobacco.

Long and hard as he thought on it, over the years, Damon was never sure he had learned a thing, from Paul, except that it is possible to kill someone at dawn in Central Park and not have a single person so much as notice. Perhaps there was no lesson to be learned at all.

 

 

_March 2020_

A lot of Damon’s conversations with Alaric can be held without so much as a word spoken out loud, these days. A Morse code of eyes widened and narrowed, eyebrows hitched high and bright or drawn low and dark. Half a smile; the best half, sometimes, across a crowded room, when Alaric’s eyes seek Damon’s.

Alaric’s eyes, now, only communicate that he is waiting for Damon to stop being a dick, and honestly, Damon is wondering why is acting the way he is. It just seems too ridiculously impossible for a human to trust him so much she actually wants him to hold her baby.

No, that’s not it.

It’s the thought of all they have now and all they will one day lose. This unbelievably beautiful pink squirming thing in Alaric’s arms will, if she is lucky, get old and die. And they’ll watch.

They might watch her grandchildren die, too.

That such a thing should happen now, when Alaric is just beginning to get a grip on what his unlife means is like a celestial joke, or something. Still, what had Damon asked for? A distraction?

(Damon reminds himself, with the memory of Paul suddenly so fresh in his mind, that Paul was alone; Damon and Alaric are not.)

At last, Damon nods, and reaches for Jenna, cautious. Slips his hand beneath Alaric’s, supporting Jenna’s tiny head. “Hello,” he says, and Jenna blows a raspberry.

She smells like vanilla, and Elena, and something pink and fresh. Damon presses his lips to her head. Tangled webs, indeed.

“So does she have one godfather, or two?” Elena asks, that slightly fond, slightly frustrated smile painted sweetly across her lips.

“Two,” Damon and Alaric both say, at exactly the same time.

“It’s not a church thing, though, right?” Damon demands. “I don’t think vampires burst into flames when they walk into a church but I’d rather not find out.”

Jenna balls her hands into tiny fists in Damon’s t-shirt, so, whatever. As Alaric would say; family, man. It’s all weird.

 

_August 2020_

The storm hasn’t come in. The clouds have rolled right back. Doesn’t mean it’s not still coming.

It has to be said: Alaric is really fucking good at this stuff. Changes diapers like a pro and sits for hours patting Jenna’s back when she has indigestion. Elena and Matt have a date night, every now and then, and Damon and Alaric fucking _babysit_ , of all the ridiculous things, and Jenna is always fast asleep when they return home.

“How does he always get her to sleep?” Elena asks Damon, when she and Matt get home one night.

“He sings to her.” Damon frowns.

“I didn’t know Ric could sing.” Elena is surprised.

Damon grimaces. “He can’t.”

“Fuck you, Damon,” Alaric calls, from his place on the couch, with Jenna asleep on his chest.

Damon barely gets through the door of the boarding house before Alaric has his big hands all over him, running over the muscles that ripple beneath Damon’s skin, peppering him with eager, hungry kisses. Damon grins against Alaric’s mouth, and shivers when Alaric’s fingers quest up into Damon’s hairline, anchoring him in place.

“What’s got into you?” Not that it matters, not that Damon cares, really; famous libidos they both have and they are beautifully matched in this but sometimes there’s more to it than sex, and Damon feels oddly sure this is one of those times; the smile on Alaric’s face, perhaps, or just that he is kissier than usual. Something is different. Whatever. Damon doesn’t care.

“I d’know, man. Life, or something. Massive fucking turn-on. You know?”

Maybe. Yes.

They half-stumble up the stairs, and undress themselves, not each other; more efficient, that way. Alaric’s eyes are big and dark and they glitter in the low light, as Damon pulls him down onto the bed, climbs over him. Presses their bodies together, two fine bodies, strong and lean. Alaric’s legs are thrown over Damon’s shoulders as Damon takes and retakes him, Alaric with his spine arched and his head thrown back, hands pressed hard at his sides against the bed covers, or pulling on Damon’s arms.

When their eyes are open they are on each other, always. They’re not always open.

Alaric is so turned on his lips look surgically enhanced, and Damon takes the bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, none too gently. “This is a good look for you,” he says.

“So you keep telling me. Fuck, Damon,” Alaric groans, as he comes hard in the narrow space between their bodies, and again, when Damon follows moments later. Alaric unhooks his legs and pulls Damon close.

They lie like that for a long time, and then shower quickly, and return to bed.

“You…” Damon starts, but he can’t go on. Alaric nudges him.

“Say it. You always get that look after we’ve sat for Jenna.” Alaric puts one hand behind his head. “So whatever it is, say it.”

“If it wasn’t for me, you might have one of those of your own.” One of the hardest sentences Damon has ever uttered. “Maybe a few of them.”

Alaric actually laughs. “You serious?”

Damon draws himself up to his elbows. “Yes. What?”

“You knew Is, right? I mean, you didn’t just sleep with and drink from her and kill her. You talked to her.”

Damon feels a chill; yes, they talked. They got to know each other rather better than he’s ever really admitted to Alaric. “What’s your point?”

“My point is she was never going to be a mother. I mean, she said it was what she wanted, before we got married. But after, she wouldn’t even talk about it. And if you hadn’t turned her – someone else would have. Or she would have ended up dead.” Alaric runs the back of his hand over Damon’s arm.

“If I hadn’t turned her, you wouldn’t have come here,” Damon counters. “You might have met some human, had kids eventually.” Damon takes Alaric’s hand and turns the wedding ring, spinning it slowly on Alaric’s finger.

“There’s more than one way to have a family, Damon,” Alaric says, and settles back against the pillows. “Goodnight.”

With his mind turning still, Damon tucks himself against Alaric’s body,  reaches a strong arm across Alaric’s chest, and settles in to sleep.

 

_1912_

The worst thing Damon had ever seen, and the moment he knew he was wrong – wasn’t a brother, didn’t have a family, didn’t deserve a family – was in 1912. It had been nearly fifty years since they’d spoken. The first chance Damon had to be a brother in all that time, and he’d fucked up again: when he’d cajoled Stefan into drinking from a woman’s neck, instead of a defenseless bunny-rabbit, and Stefan had torn off her head.

Watching Stefan try to put the woman’s head back on had almost undone Damon completely. Some half-broken part of him had to fight the urge to laugh, though he understood Stefan’s urge. Something so utterly _wrong_ couldn’t possibly be real.

Stefan had run, and Damon hadn’t tried to chase him or stop him.

He’d gone with Sage, instead. Stayed on the road with her for months. He ignored the stories he heard about the Ripper of Monterey, even when Sage needled that she thought it might be Stefan.

They travelled through the south, and had been on the road less than a week the first time Sage brought Damon to her bed.

He had tried to argue. “I told you, I am spoken for. I will rescue my Katherine from the tomb one day…”

“And if she’s any kind of vampire she won’t care how many beds you’ve graced with this magnificent body in her absence, Damon Salvatore. Or is she a prude?”

Damon had to close his eyes against the memory of Katherine trying to cajole him to share a bed with her and Stefan, how she had said it didn’t matter, rules against incest were to stop mutant children from being born. She’d been angry that neither Stefan nor Damon would agree. Damon wondered occasionally why she had never compelled them.

Something Katherine knew they couldn’t forgive her for, when she turned them and the compelled memories reverted, he supposed.

“Not a prude,” Damon had said, as Sage’s mouth closed over his.

It was like he’d forgotten what his cock was for, but Sage reminded him quickly enough, sitting on top of Damon, riding him like a whore, wanton and wanting, and –

No. Not a whore. Like a woman who knew what felt good, knew what she wanted. Knew how to make it feel good for whoever shared her bed, too. This was what he had been missing.

Damon quickened his pace, controlling Sage’s hips. Thrusting deeper and harder, reveling in her moans, Damon experienced his first non-self-induced orgasm in nearly fifty years.

Sage educated Damon thoroughly. In New Orleans, they met with her friend Julian Etoile, a French vampire whom she had met in Lyon many years before. Julian was very handsome, with cheekbones you could cut yourself on, hair so blond it was almost white, and eyes nearly as pale a blue as Damon’s own. He was enormously wealthy, and dressed to show it off.

The three of them had drunk an enormous amount of absinthe, carefully straining it over cubes of sugar to take the bitter edge off, as was the fashion of the day. The wormwood electrified them all, and the night took on a green tint. Julian’s eyes on Damon’s made Damon’s face ache, and his cock twitch.

In Julian’s manor just a few blocks from the French Quarter, their clothes were flung in every direction. Hands and lips brushed and snatched and tasted until Julian dropped to his hands and knees on the bed, and begged Damon in three languages to fuck him.

(Damon had, once, while human, kissed another man; his best friend, he supposed they’d say now, John Lockwood. It was war-time. They were weeks into the march across the south, and had miraculously found themselves with one of the small tents usually reserved for officers; there was a spare, and they were the oldest in the regiment, so it was offered to them. They had kissed, and traded soft, fearful touches, nothing more. If either knew what he was doing there might have been more to it than that, though Damon was picturing Katherine waiting for him back in Mystic Falls.)

Damon hadn’t hesitated. As Sage sat in a beautiful old arm chair, legs spread wide and eyes on the scene before her, bringing herself to climax with a well-practiced hand, Damon had knelt on the bed behind Julian. Had gripped Julian’s hips, and well-lubricated with a perfumed oil Julian kept in a beautiful crystal decanter on his nightstand, Damon had discovered all the _other_ things he’d been missing.

Damon loved the feeling of controlling and being controlled by someone with a body so strong and so well-matched to Damon’s own. He loved the ferocity of the kisses, firmer lips than Damon was used to; not that he was very experienced, even kissing, but the feeling of Julian’s rough-shaved facial hair against Damon’s face was alien, and fantastic, and Damon was left wondering why anyone bothered to decide, ever, that they preferred one type of sex over the other. The pleasures of the flesh were just that.

They had all the energy in the world, and a dozen servants to feed off, so they didn’t leave the house for days. They drank bottle after bottle of absinthe, and smoked opium, too. The effect of opium on vampires was (for reasons Damon never quite understood) quite different to the effect it had on humans. It honed their senses to razor-sharp, made every touch almost too much. They fitted and slotted together in every combination two men and a woman can achieve, and slept in a warm, fucked-out pile only when they absolutely had to.

By the time he and Sage were ready to leave, a few days later, Damon was, for the first time in nearly fifty years, very much awake. His nerves were electrified, crackling. He didn’t even care, any more, that he had a brother somewhere.

Damon and Sage spent nearly a year together, on the road and off it. In California, Damon decided he wanted to head off on his own for a while.

“Don’t forget what I taught you,” Sage said, on that last morning, in an elegant hotel in Los Angeles.

“If it feels good, fuck it?” Damon had smirked – one of the first of his real Damon-smirks, now so honed and so much a part of himself – and Sage had kissed him, one last time.

“That, yes. And snatch-eat-erase,” she added. “This life can be so beautiful, Damon, if you let it. I hope you get your Katherine back. Perhaps one day I’ll get my Finn back.”

“How long since…?”

Sage’s answer had shocked Damon. He’d never even asked her age, just known from her strength that she was far older than he was. “Eight hundred years.” Sage had tugged on a lock of Damon’s soft black hair, and smoothed a hand down his chest. Damon had caught Sage’s chin on his finger, and met her eye.

“You love him still?”

“Love fades for humans,” she had answered, a little sadly. “Not for us.”

 

 

_September 2020_

Alaric is sitting on the edge of the bed when Damon wakes.

Damon says nothing, and isn’t sure Alaric has even heard him wake; but Alaric turns his head. Not enough to see Damon, nowhere near it, just the briefest acknowledgment that Damon has woken.

“I think… I’m fucked up,” he admits.

Damon climbs out from the bed covers, tangled from the previous night’s exertions. Fits his body behind Alaric’s body and wraps his legs around Alaric’s hips. Props his chin on one of Alaric’s shoulders, and loops his arms around Alaric’s chest.

“Breathe,” Damon says. “Just breathe.”

“You knew this was coming.”

Damon kisses Alaric’s shoulder. Answer enough. “I told you it’s not all fun. You’ll get through it.”

“You didn’t say it right. You didn’t say it was like _this_.” Alaric shakes his head. “What’s happening to me?”

“You’re finally realizing you’re a vampire,” Damon says. “With all that entails.”

They are silent, long moments. Breathing together. “It won’t be like this for long, though. Right? Tell me you don’t feel… whatever _this_ is, all the time.”

“It comes and goes,” Damon admits. “Variations on a theme. But it’s been a _very_ long time since I felt what you’re feeling right now.” There’s no point in lying. Alaric has never been a fan of being lied to, whether it’s about Damon paying a phone bill or the world coming to an end.

“I’m…” Alaric stutters, and stops. “I’m dead.”

“You’re dead.”

“I used to tell Caroline…”

“That her heart beat. And that she thought, and acted, though not necessarily in that order. Yes.” Damon runs his hands over Alaric’s sides. “You did.”

“Because…”

Damon squeezes a little tighter. Just an affirmation. There is nothing sexual in the gesture. “Because what is there, to being alive, if it’s not that? Our hearts beat. We talk, we think. We fight, and we fuck. We _babysit_ , which is still ridiculous, by the way. We have friends. Responsibilities. A house. So…”

Alaric is very smart, current state of his mental health notwithstanding. “Fuck, Damon.”

Damon waits.

Alaric rarely cries; perhaps as frequently as Damon does. And he’s not crying now, though Damon thinks he can smell the threatening tears.

“I’m dead. Actually dead.”

There it is. Step one.

“Yes. Dead.”

Maybe it’s the fact that Alaric died four times, before the last time, and woke up entirely himself each time; his actual death (and yes, in ways that can’t really be explained to a human, vampires are dead) hadn’t been as unsettling to Alaric as it was to other newly-woken vampires. He had felt his first death (at Damon’s hands, in front of the fireplace, only feet and inches below where they are now) much more than the last one, when he had known he was going to wake up with Damon’s arm draped across his chest.

Damon feels Alaric’s heart speed further. It flutters like a caged bird in Alaric’s chest. Faster and faster. Damon presses his lips to Alaric’s shoulder, again, lingering. He thinks, for a moment, about biting Alaric. Reminding him of who they are, together. He speaks again, instead. “It could be worse.”

Alaric shakes his head. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Doesn’t make me any less right,” Damon argues. “At least you’re not doing it on your own.”

Alaric leans back, and keeps breathing, and wraps his big hands around Damon’s forearms.

It doesn’t stay bad, not like that; but Damon reminds himself daily that’s it’s only the end of the beginning, not the beginning of the end.

 

 

_December 2020_

On the twenty-second of December Damon and Alaric go to the Donovan house for an early Christmas; basically an excuse to shower Jenna with gifts and see who can coax the most steps out of her.

It has been amusing to everyone but Alaric that Jenna, now that she is a little more mobile and independent, has a clear preference for Damon. She is affectionate with them both, but her third word – after ‘mom’, and ‘dad’ – was ‘Dam’ (the memory of Stefan doing the same thing had almost knocked Damon off his feet, the first time), and she is yet to utter ‘Ric’, no matter how much time Alaric spends trying to make her say it.

Matt and Elena are having Christmas in New York with Jeremy and Tyler, who don’t have time to travel, thanks to… Whatever, Damon wasn’t paying attention, when Elena explained. Something architects do. So an early Christmas and then Damon and Alaric have the whole of Mystic Falls to themselves for two weeks. The Donovans will be back a few days into the new year.

The following day Damon and Alaric drive Matt, Elena and Jenna to the airport in Charlottesville, and Damon plays peek-a-boo with Jenna for an hour while they wait to move through security.

Driving back to Mystic Falls Alaric is quiet, though he doesn’t look unhappy; he drives, that’s all, and hums in the out-of-tune way he tends to. It totally ruins the perfection of Damon’s road-trip playlist, but whatever.

“Let’s fly to New York for New Year’s,” Alaric says, and Damon thinks sure, why the fuck not. From his cell he books tickets, a hotel.

On arrival at the boarding house they are relaxed, laughing, admitting it won’t entirely suck to get a break from the near-constant baby-duty, and then Alaric tenses.

Actually, no. He doesn’t just ‘tense’. His whole body changes. Damon hears the shift in Alaric’s heartbeat. Every muscle prepares for whatever it will be called to do.

“What?”

Maybe it’s because Alaric was a human amongst vampires for so long but his threat detection is pretty fucking impressive. His hand closes hard around Damon’s wrist. “There’s a vampire here,” he says.

Damon frowns. “It’s probably Saint Stefan. Though…”

“No. It’s not Stefan.”

There’s barely a sound. Nothing more than what silk brushing against silk might sound like. And then a familiar figure steps out of the shadows, and into the entry hall.

Tallish, for a chick, especially one born a thousand years ago. Blonde hair altogether too neatly arranged. Wearing a dress so short it should be calling itself a blouse. Frosted pink lipstick. And a gun in each hand.

“Hello, boys,” Rebekah says, and pulls the triggers.

Damon has barely enough time to notice the agony of the vervain racing through his veins before he hits the ground, and the world goes black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unsatisfying sort of chapter, I know - not just because of the cliffhanger, but because everything is left a little unsigned and irritable. Well, that's life. This chapter marks the first of three that will see Alaric change in some important ways.  
> The next few episodes will reveal Klaus's fate, we will spend some time with Rebekah, and finally see the return of Bonnie, who I have been missing. Stay tuned!


	10. 2021 - Rebekah, and the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Alaric is starting to come to terms with being a vampire, Rebekah has shown up with vervain and something on her mind.  
> Warning for torture, minor character deaths and Alaric being severely traumatised.

Damon and Alaric are impulsive, yes, and they tend to drop everything and fly to a horror movie convention at a moment’s notice, or a French Burlesque show doing a one-off performance in Memphis or in one particularly memorably incident Elena likes to remind them about occasionally, a pie-eating competition in Salt Lake City.

But they always tell her where they are going. And Elena can’t remember the last time she went longer than a day without a text or a phone call from one of them.

Matt thinks Elena is overreacting. “You don’t think they could be just enjoying a break from it all? A break from Jenna even?”

Elena gives Matt a skeptical look. “When have they ever wanted a break from Jenna?”

Matt shrugs, and concedes.

Elena calls Liz Forbes, who is irritated; “they are, you know, capable of taking care of themselves, Elena. I have humans to worry about.”

“Will you go to the boarding house? Just see if anything looks… wrong?”

Elena and Matt are sitting in a café down the street from where Tyler and Jeremy design apartments and hotels and super-efficient office spaces. A waiter brings coffee, and Jenna is drinking orange juice from a sippy cup, when Liz calls back hours later to say the house is locked up and seems fine, though she admits Alaric’s truck was parked in the driveway, not in its usual spot.

The first few days, Elena wasn’t really worried, when her messages went unanswered; she imagined Damon and Alaric wouldn’t leave the bedroom for days, with some time and space to themselves. But tomorrow is new year’s eve. It’s been over a week. Elena presses her lips to Jenna’s hair.

Jenna’s eyes are nearly as dark as Elena’s, now, but her hair is very blonde.

“Sheriff Forbes has a point, you know. They _are_ vampires. How much is there that they can’t handle?” Matt looks like he is trying to convince himself, as much as Elena.

Jenna chooses this exact moment to start fussing, and Tyler and Jeremy arrive looking every inch a pair of hip gay architects so Elena is effectively distracted, for a while.

Later that night, lying together with Jenna sleeping softly between them, Matt and Elena say little. Matt plays with Jenna’s hair. “Do you want to go back?” he asks, and Elena doesn’t know.

“I mean – you’re right. What could possibly happen to them?”

Still she sleeps poorly, and texts often.

New year’s day, 2021, Elena calls Stefan and Caroline. They don’t answer, so she leaves a message, asking if they’ve heard from Damon or Alaric.

Next, Elena calls Bonnie. They swap pleasantries, and talk about the resolutions they will never keep, and then Elena shares her fears.

It is almost a relief, when Bonnie laughs. “No more tomb vampires, no more Originals, and they play poker twice a year with a hybrid pack. What could possibly happen to them?”

Elena feels a faint, cold fear. The Originals. “We don’t know where the Originals are. Except Elijah. And Finn, and Esther, obviously,” she says. “Kol and Rebekah?”

Bonnie is silent. “They’ve been gone nearly ten years.”

“Can you do a spell? See if you can find out where Damon and Alaric are?”

Bonnie agrees, and Elena gets back to her fretting.

 

**

 

It is patently ridiculous. There is no reason for Rebekah or Kol to go after Damon and Alaric. They had a deal. They’d promised Elijah, and both seemed to harbor a quiet fear of Elijah. Still. There was always the chance they could defy him.

Bonnie sighs.

A map of Virginia, first. Bonnie places a needle over Mystic Falls, and commands it to float just a touch above the paper. She closes her eyes and begins to recite the words, and flinches, when the needle scratches her just below the eye, flying past her to embed itself in the wall behind her.

“Motherfu-”

It’s a deep scratch, and a shock, because it is years since a spell went wrong. In the bathroom, Bonnie clears the blood away, shaking a little, and closes the wound with a butterfly bandage.

She takes a long moment to eye herself in the mirror, before returning to try a second time.

The needle fights her.

Bonnie tries something different; commands the needle to find Sheriff Forbes, instead, and it quickly embeds itself in Mystic Falls. Interesting. Perhaps the needle had been trying to find a different state.

Bonnie finds a map of the greater United States, and tries again. Again, the needle flies away, though it doesn’t hit her the second time. It embeds itself in the ceiling, instead. No state up there.

Bonnie sits and thinks for a long time, and then heads out to her favorite bookshop.

“Jack,” she says, when he turns to meet her eyes, behind the counter. Jack smiles. He is so black his eyes and teeth are a shock, and he laughs every time he opens his mouth.

“Miss Bonnie,” he says, in that inimitable French Mauritian accent, after a quick chuckle. Bonnie leans across the counter to accept a kiss on each cheek. “What can I do for you today?”

“I had a spell backfire on me this morning. Twice.”

Jack takes in the scratch below Bonnie’s eye, and his smile falters. Bonnie explains.

“What could do that?”

Jack comes out from behind the counter, to lock the front door and turn the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. Bonnie sorts through a pile of books on the counter; new acquisitions, not yet priced for sale. A book on medicinal and magical herbs in Eastern Europe looks interesting, although the translations will be a bitch. After flicking through it a moment, Bonnie opens her mouth.

Jack chuckles, and presses it against her chest. “For you. No, you must.”

He has to stop doing that. Still Bonnie thanks him, and tucks the book in her bag.

She silently follows him out to the back of the store and up the stairway that leads to his living quarters.

Jack has nothing like Bonnie’s power. No one Bonnie knows has as much power as she does. It sets her apart, makes it difficult to befriend other witches; when Bonnie had approached a coven only six months ago, she had joined them for a corner-calling ritual and been asked never to come back.

“It all went perfectly,” she had said.

“You make my teeth ache,” the coven leader had said flatly, and Bonnie had just nodded, and walked away.

Perhaps it was because he had relatively little power of his own, perhaps it was for other reasons; but Jack worked hard and researched and was a font of knowledge. He could describe in precise detail every step in a ritual to banish enemies from a home, he just couldn’t do the spell himself.

Also: He could look at Bonnie almost every day for five years with desire – no, with love in his eyes and never ask her to join him for so much as a coffee, outside his own home.

Jack had a world map on the main wall of his living room – enormous, five feet high and almost eight feet long. And ancient. So old, in fact, that sections of the coastline of certain countries are inaccurate, and there are countries in Europe which haven’t existed since the nineteenth century.

Still, if Damon and Alaric have run off for a holiday in Paris without telling anyone, Bonnie will be able to tell.

She closes her eyes, and holds the needle between her thumb and forefinger.

“Shit.” She drops her hand.

From behind her, Jack speaks. “What is it?”

“If the needle had hit me an inch higher this morning I could be blind in one eye.”

Jack places a hand over Bonnie’s shoulder. It doesn’t lend power, but it lends strength.

Bonnie takes several deep breaths, and extends the needle out in front of her. She begins to chant, and feels the needle warm between her fingers.

It hovers in midair, and wilts like a wet noodle, and falls to the ground.

When Bonnie picks the needle up, it is quite cold. It looks like a wire knot. Hard again now, though.

Jacks slips silently to a bookshelf, and retrieves a small sewing kit. He produces a needle of his own. “Do us,” he says.

When Bonnie has repeated the chant again, the needle immediately plants itself in Philadelphia. Bonnie crosses her arms.

“What could do that?”

Jack crosses to the tiny kitchen. “Tea?” he asks. Jack makes wonderful coffee, but Bonnie can’t drink a lot of it; it makes her nerves jangle.

“Please,” she says, studying the map.

They have to be somewhere heavily warded, that much is clear. Funny thing about Mystic Falls, though, so much supernatural energy racing around the place, that effective wards are hard to apply. Too many witch spirits; they don’t like dark magic, and warding for the purposes of concealment is pretty dicey.

“What could do this?”

“Warding,” Jack says. “Powerful warding. Or…” He bites his lip, and Bonnie realizes quickly she is missing his chuckle. “Are you certain the spell works on vampires?”

The fact Jack has not said a word about the fact Bonnie is trying to help vampires speaks volumes. He is so trusting.

From the sewing kit, Bonnie chooses another needle. Moments later the needle embeds itself in the appropriate place. Stefan and Caroline are definitely in Seattle. Probably, Caroline had one of her famous New Year’s parties last night, with half the Seattle music scene. “I do now.”

“Do it for someone you know to be dead.”

Bonnie doesn’t know a lot of people who have died; not permanently. A few dead vampires, she supposes, and if…

She banishes the thought.

Bonnie never met Lexie in life but she has spoken to her, enough, through Caroline’s friend Darcy, that she supposes it might work. The needle hesitates in her hand, and then lodges itself in Mystic Falls, where Lexie’s body lies.

“A warding, then.” Bonnie sighs.

“These vampires are your friends.”

Bonnie hesitates.

There was a time when she hated Damon, deliberately and specifically. But like anyone who grows up with knowledge of these things, she has learned to take a broader view: what you’ve done matters less than what you do now. Damon is… perhaps not _good_ per se, but certainly, with Alaric at his side, he has… protected them. Even saved Bonnie’s life, more than once. Certainly Elena would be long dead without them both.

“I was at their wedding,” she admits. “Yes. They’re friends. Alaric especially. You know… he’s been a vampire, I don’t know, nearly ten years? And he’s never killed anyone.”

Bonnie sighs, and accepts the proffered mug of tea. “If he was human, that would sound strange, right? But even when he was human, he laid down his life for us all. And… he’s an unusual vampire. And he’s tamed Damon, which is both cool and hilarious.” Her voice is dry. The tea is strong and sweet, and has a citric edge; Earl Grey, then.

“Miss Bonnie.” Jack is drinking tea as well; a way of solidifying the bond, for now, she suspects. “What will you do?”

There’s no real choice. “I go back to Mystic Falls,” she says.

Jack chuckles, and pushes Bonnie’s hair behind her ears.

“I will come with you.”

Bonnie laughs. “No, Jack. You have a business to run.” She smiles. It is sweet he has even offered.

“I will come with you.” Jack chuckles again, and presses his hand to Bonnie’s arm, and heads to his bedroom. He is packing a bag when Bonnie reaches the door.

“Why?”

Jack chuckles, and shrugs. “Perhaps I think it is funny,” he says, in an inimitable accent, part France and part Africa and all Jack, “that you have friends who are vampires. I have never met one. Perhaps I do not have enough adventures,” he admits.

“I’m going to have to drive,” Bonnie starts. It is intended to be a protest. Jack raises a hand.

“Then you need someone to ’elp.”

Bonnie doesn’t even really want to argue.

 

**

 

Alaric wakes, but only partially, and when he does, he immediately wishes he hadn’t.

There are a lot of things you quickly learn to take for granted, as a vampire. Speed, strength. The ability to drink two bottles of bourbon and wake with a smile on your face. The sex, for fuck’s sake, there’s almost no refractory period. It’s point, shoot, reload, and stopping only when too physically exhausted to go another second longer.

The simplest thing to take for granted is the feeling of absolute physical wellbeing. Wounds heal almost instantly. There are almost no aches and pains, though that depends on a few things; they are healthier drinking from the source, and healthier on human blood.

Alaric wants to kick himself.

He hasn’t admitted it to Damon, but he has been drinking a hell of a lot of animal blood. Not that it would matter, right now. He’s been kept weak for – what, days? Weeks?

He’s never been this conscious, in however long he’s been here for.

Alaric raises his head, and immediately regrets that, too.

He is chained to a wall. Part of him thinks he might have known that. When he lifts his head, and opens his eyes, he discovers that directly opposite him, Damon is also chained to a wall. The main difference between them is that Damon is also staked. In many places. Wooden stakes pierce both thighs, a lung, his gut.

Alaric starts to struggle.

“Oh, don’t bother with that,” comes a feminine voice. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll even give you some blood.”

Rebekah. “What are you doing?”

“I want to know where my brother is.”

Alaric shakes his head. “Be more specific. I’ve got Elijah on speed dial, unless he’s changed his number,” Alaric says.

“You can’t be this stupid,” Rebekah says. “I want Nik back.”

Alaric struggles, for a long moment, ignoring Rebekah’s giggle. And then he calls out. “Damon. Damon?” He struggles more, and feels exhausted almost immediately. “Damon!”

Damon doesn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow, and his skin is almost grey.

“You want me to wake him up?” Rebekah stands in front of Alaric. She smiles, bright and sweet. “I’ll try, if you like.”

“Don’t hurt him.”

It sounds pathetic, to Alaric’s ears; Rebekah has no reason to do anything he asks.

“I won’t hurt him. You think he needs some blood?”

Sounds too good to be true.

Rebekah produces a blood bag, and tears the corner off with her teeth. She tips Damon’s head back, and begins to pour it into his mouth. After a few moments, Damon, still mostly unconscious, begins to drink, the muscles in his throat moving rapidly, unconsciously.

“Damon.” Alaric almost doesn’t want to say the name out loud, but Damon’s eyes flutter open. They meet Alaric’s across the space.

Alaric doesn’t know what to say. ‘Are you alright?’ comes to mind but under the circumstances, it is also the most ridiculous fucking thing it has ever occurred to him to say. Damon winces, but he keeps his eyes on Alaric’s.

He doesn’t speak. Can’t, Alaric thinks. He’s too weak.

“Shall I unstake him?” Rebekah looks like she might just as easily have asked, ‘would you like a cupcake?’ Alaric can’t bring himself to answer. Rebekah rolls her eyes. “Pick a stake, and I’ll take it out,” she promises.

“The one in his lung.”

There is almost a look of regret in Damon’s eyes when he hears this; Damon is used to the sort of tricky thinking Rebekah usually employs.

“Okay,” Rebekah says, and removes the stake.

And then she plunges it straight back in. Alaric shouts, syllables, something, he doesn’t know what, and Damon’s eyes fall closed again.

“You should ask to see the fine print,” Rebekah says, examining her fingernails. Apparently the enamel is flaking off. “Before you sign a contract. Now.” She takes a step closer, and Alaric is sure he sees a little flare in her pupil. “Tell me. Where is Nik?”

“I don’t know.” This is the most fucked thing ever and also true: in the end it was Elijah and Damon who had dealt with the… disposal? Containment? Of Klaus’s body. Alaric honestly has no idea. Alaric wants to tell Rebekah that Damon is the only one who can help but Damon deserves unconsciousness right now. Awake, he’d be in unimaginable pain, even before Rebekah started trying to inflict it.

“You’re on vervain.”

Alaric shakes his head. “I’m not. And even if I was – you’ve been draining us for how long, here?”

“Not long enough,” she says.

“No one’s taken vervain since… you guys left,” Alaric says, and this is true.

There is something about the way her perfect blonde hair is matted with blood that makes all of this that much harder to take. It splashes down the front of her pretty white sun dress, making her look like something out of a horror movie.

“I don’t believe you. But I have all the time in the world to find out if you’re telling the truth. You? Have less time. And your… _boyfriend_ ,” and Rebekah spits the word, “has even less time. So think hard, Mr. Saltzman.”

 _Husband_ , Alaric wants to spit back, but Rebekah splashes what he can only assume is vervain tea over Alaric’s body, so he screams, instead. Vervain burns. Fuck. Damon touched him with it once, just so he’d understand. It was like lye against the skin. But this? This is like being splashed with agent orange.

Rebekah leaves the room, and lets the door shut behind her. There is a sound of gears turning, and Damon and Alaric are alone again.

Alaric shouts Damon’s name for long minutes, until he cannot keep his eyes open a second longer.

 

**

 

Elena answers the phone on the first ring. She is so tense that even Jenna can’t calm down; they are feeding each other stress and frustration, and Jenna cries and cries.

“They’re in Europe. Somewhere in France. Guess they don’t have roaming on their phones.”

“France?”

“You know them, Elena. Impulsive.”

Elena collapses back into the couch. “I’ll kill them. They should have said.”

“Chill out, Elena. Call me in a few days.” Bonnie ends the call, and Elena breathes a sigh of relief.

 

**

 

There’s the old Witch House, obviously, though there’s a lot of residual magic there. Hard to control, unless you really know what you’re doing. Worth a try, though Bonnie suspects she would know, if anyone tried to manipulate the power in that house.

The old dungeon on the Lockwood family property. That’s worth checking. The caves nearby – they seem a likely spot, though parts can’t be penetrated by a vampire, so perhaps not. They are hard to find and even harder to navigate. No one has ever mapped them out, past the first big cavern and the paintings there that date back a thousand years.

Which of course means that if anyone knows their way around the caves, it will be the Originals.

Jack smiles serenely in the driver’s seat while Bonnie flips through a book about Place Magic.

“I’m going to look like a total idiot when it turns out all of this is nothing,” Bonnie mutters.

“It is not nothing,” Jack disagrees, and once again Bonnie finds herself wishing he would chuckle.

“Do you think I should have told the truth?”

Jack is silent. “You ’ave your reasons not to.”

She does; it would have turned into a reunion. Matt and Elena would have come back, would have brought Jeremy and Tyler with them. Stefan and Caroline would have found a way to get involved. If Bonnie can’t find anything in a day or two, she’ll call back and confess.

There is, of course, the boarding house. A veritable hive of basements, down there, and not exactly holy ground. The dungeon is one of the few places you could actually hold a vampire and expect them to stay held.

The tomb. If someone put them down there, it would be near fucking impossible to get them back.

Bonnie sighs. It’s not a short list and the more she thinks about it, the more she hopes this has been blown completely out of proportion.

When Bonnie and Jack arrive at the boarding house, Alaric’s truck is parked on the driveway. Nothing to see there. The locked door to the boarding house poses no difficulty. With a push of intention and no ill will, Bonnie opens it easily and she and Jack slip through.

On the ground in the foyer is a box. A little blood leaks from the bottom corner.

“What is it?”

Bonnie lifts the box, and removes the lid. Jack crosses his arms.

Damon and Alaric’s day rings. Their wedding rings. And about a dozen fingernails.

Actually, Bonnie thinks, fighting the urge to vomit, it’s all useful. With blood, with personal items, she can choose another spell. One more likely to work.

“Is there a note?”

From the ground, Jack picks up a slip of pink paper, which smells faintly like fake strawberries. The handwriting is loopy, with little circles over the ‘I’s.

 _Hello!_ It says.

_I have your friends. I’m going to kill Damon, and the history teacher, in that order, unless one of them tells me where my brother is. Feel free to make it easier on them, if you like, by spilling the beans yourselves._

_Do hurry,_

_Bek xoxo_

There is a phone number beneath that.

“You should check to see if their phones are ’ere. Try to call?”

Bonnie dials their numbers, and when there is no answer, she calls the phone company, to see if she can get the GPS traced. Their phones are off and the batteries are out.

“So we look,” Bonnie says, and sets up to do a blood locator spell in the library.

 

**

 

Alaric wakes to find Rebekah squirting him with a water pistol. A water pistol full of vervain.

Alaric shouts, pulls against the chains.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Rebekah sings. “Sorry about the fingernails. Does it hurt?”

Yes, it fucking hurts, and Alaric isn’t healing fast enough. He needs blood. He’s not going to ask for it. Damon is still unconscious, across from him, his heart beating sluggishly.

“Elijah,” Alaric moans.

“He’s not talking. And Damon can’t, right now. So that leaves you.” Squirt, squirt. Alaric screams, and struggles, until he can’t.

“Don’t. Know. Where he is.”

“I don’t believe you,” Rebekah sings. “Everything he knows, you know. So stop being such a bore. I’m starting to think torturing you with vervain might be making it harder to compel you. Still. You’ll talk, and soon. Won’t you?”

Alaric racks his brain but there was never even a _clue_. He never even asked Damon what he and Elijah were doing with Klaus’s body. He’d just been happy Klaus was out of the way. He knows there was a deal of some kind. He hadn’t cared, much, at the time, what the deal was. He was just grateful Mystic Falls was safe.

“They buried him.”

“You are a really terrible liar, Mr. Saltzman,” Rebekah insists. “Elijah would have wanted to know he could get him back quickly, if he wanted him.”

“Give him some blood,” Alaric begs. “Please. He’ll tell you.”

Rebekah rolls her eyes, leaves the room, and returns with a human. Alaric knows some vampires like to keep human companions around. Rebekah bites into his wrist, and then presses it up to Damon’s mouth. The human flinches, a little, but not much.

“They’re not even compelled?”

“Compelled humans can’t improvise.” Rebekah strokes the man’s hair behind his ear. “They’re my friends. Aren’t you, dear?”

After a long moment, Damon starts to drink; his eyes fly open, and he drinks hard, but after a moment, Rebekah sends the human away again.

“Dear? You don’t even know their names, do you?”

“Well they all look alike. You know how it is. They all want to turn, so they all do just as I ask.” Rebekah slaps Damon’s face; only gently. Rousing him. It works, though his eyes are still dull, and he’s not healing. A wide gash on his chest tries to knit shut from the ends; Alaric can almost hear it. But he needs a hell of a lot more blood to heal.

“Your boyfriend here wants to see you hurt, Damon. He’s pretending he doesn’t know where my brother is.”

Damon breathes a moment, and his heart rate increases. “He doesn’t. And.” His head drops an inch. “Neither do I. Elijah has Klaus.”

“Liar.” Rebekah shoots the water pistol at Damon, who groans, and flinches.

“Believe me, honey, I have no interest in… sacrificing myself for the greater good.”

He sounds healthier, the blood working its way through his tissues, but it’s not enough, it’s really not.

“Call Elijah,” Alaric says. “Do it.”

“You two must think I’m stupid.”

“Call Elijah and tell him what you’re doing.” This is a gamble. Truthfully, Alaric has no idea whether Elijah has any sense of loyalty to them. Probably not. Elijah is all about family. Doesn’t matter. It’s the only card they have to play. “He’ll tell you the truth.”

“I think you just need some time to chat amongst yourselves and see if you can remember. Do think hard. Perhaps you popped him in the hall cupboard? Or left him in the garage? Anyway,” she says, all throaty whisper, “I have a plan B.”

For a bit of variety, perhaps, Rebekah stakes Alaric in the gut, on her way out the door.

“ _Do_ you know?” Alaric says, when he can speak at all.

Damon shakes his head. “We thought it would be. You know. Safer.” He laughs, sort of. “My guess is Elijah has him in one of his houses, somewhere.”

“The deal…?”

“Elijah doesn’t get the spell lifted until after Elena’s dead. However long that takes. That’s the whole deal.”

Alaric coughs, and is deeply unsettled to see how much blood he coughs up; somehow, he doubts he has much to spare.

“Hey, Ric,” Damon says, minutes later. “You think she still has a thing for me?”

“She’s going to kill us,” Alaric says dully. “Isn’t she?”

“Maybe. Not soon.”

“Think anyone’s looking for us?”

“Who would even know we’re missing?” Damon looks sad. He has a point. Matt and Elena are, presumably, still in New York. They won’t know anything’s gone wrong until no one arrives to pick them up from the airport. Or maybe they’re already late. That’s a cheering thought.

Alaric doesn’t want to close his eyes, but with blood still seeping from the wound in his gut, he can’t keep them open a minute longer.

 

**

 

Although, really, it seems like a bad idea, Bonnie calls Rebekah.

“Where are they?” she asks. “If you’ve hurt them -”

“You’ll what? March in here and offer me your neck? Still, it’s nice to know someone’s looking for them. Do you know where my brother is?”

“No one does,” Bonnie says. “Except Elijah, and presumably Damon – though if Damon knew, he would have told you by now. I assume you’ve compelled them. So for god’s sake, Rebekah, call Elijah.”

“But I have a very powerful witch working for me, now,” Rebekah says. Her voice is sparkling, gleeful. On anyone else that same voice would sound innocent, too.

Bonnie stills. “Who?”

“You, sweetheart. Do a spell. You’ll find Nik that way. You helped put him down, didn’t you?”

“Sure. Masked. So _no one could find him_.” Bonnie sighs. “You really don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a game. And we didn’t just do it for Elena. Klaus was talking about building an army. With no Doppelganger line to make hybrids he’ll never be able to. We took the whole thing pretty seriously, Rebekah.”

After a pause, during which Bonnie hopes she is thinking, and not painting her nails, Rebekah speaks. “You forget, Bonnie, my mother was a witch. I know there’s always a loophole.” Rebekah hangs up and somehow, Bonnie doesn’t throw her own phone across the room.

It takes hours. Bonnie starts by trying to find Klaus. This results in her nearly burning down the library, and she can’t even detect a whiff of the energy of the original spell. Jack applies a tincture of aloe vera to Bonnie’s hand and wraps it carefully.

“I wish I could ’elp,” he says sadly. “’eal this, perhaps.”

“I’ll heal it myself, once this is done. Don’t want my energies unfocussed.”

It is easy, if grizzly, distinguishing Alaric’s blunt, square fingernails from Damon’s, which are longer on the nail bed. Unnecessary, since they are together, but easier to find one person at a time. Bonnie understands Alaric better, knows him better, so she focuses on him. The squarish fingernails, the newer-looking ring (as old as Damon’s, she knows, but less worn) and his slightly larger wedding ring, she puts in a small silver bowl.

“It was one thing to lie when we weren’t sure if they were okay or not, Jack, but don’t you think I should call them now?”

“Could they ’elp? Or would they ’over about?”

Fair point.

Bonnie spreads a map of Mystic Falls over the large desk in the library, and begins to chant. Almost immediately, it is painful. Like being on a plane with a middle ear infection, the pressurization all wrong. Her nose begins to bleed in moments, and the smudge of Alaric’s blood on the map is frustratingly still.

Trying a second time, to find Damon, is no more successful.

“Spell’s not working,” Bonnie says. “We’re going to have to do this the hard way.” Holding a great wad of Kleenex to her nose.

“’ard way?”

“Go looking.”

Still, one last thing worth a try before they start careening around town. Bonnie paws through the drawers in the library desk, until she finds a battered phone book. It’s old, and she knows it belongs to Alaric. Alaric tends to trust paper copies more than the cloud or any computer backups.

 _So_ 2012.

Sure enough, Elijah’s phone number is in there; hilariously listed under ‘O’, for ‘Original’, she supposes. It’s a miracle Bonnie can read it at all. Alaric’s handwriting is terrible. Elijah doesn’t answer the phone, but Bonnie leaves a message. No details. Just a request for an urgent callback.

The Witch House is a bust. Bonnie knew it would be. The witches like Jack, though; he is unsettled by their whispers, but seems almost right away to enjoy the sense of interest he feels, their curiosity in him. Jack’s magic is of a different flavor, and perhaps the witches recognize the long-forgotten call of the dark continent. He lived more than half his life in Africa and perhaps carries some of its scent.

Bonnie lights candles and asks for help. She isn’t sure they will help; is almost sure they won’t, truthfully, as her relationship with these witches has been complicated at best and they have cut her off in the past.

Plus they like vampires little, and Damon less.

Still, they seem to be lonely. No one with any sort of power has visited them in a long time, she supposes. Rather than argue, they seem to indicate they can’t see Damon or Alaric anywhere, and leave it at that. Bonnie asks if they will help her search.

They roll away like the dust eddies that catch in the candlelight.

“Fuck,” Bonnie says, and extinguishes the candles.

They are about to give up for the night – it is close to two in the morning. The drive had taken them all the previous night, sharing driving shifts and sleeping shifts. They’d spent all day gathering spell ingredients and attempting to find Damon and Alaric, and Bonnie’s nose is still bleeding sporadically.

In short: they are exhausted and no use to anyone right now, including themselves. Jack drives back to the boarding house.

Bonnie leads Jack to a spare room and settles herself into Stefan’s bed (why this doesn’t feel more weird, she isn’t sure – perhaps because she can sort of think of it as Caroline’s bed as well). She is about to nod off, when the phone rings. Elijah. Bonnie is reassured, that he would call so late. Means he’s taking this seriously.

“Miss Bennett. It has been some time.”

For the thousandth time, Bonnie wonders what combination of locales produced that indistinct accent. “Your crazy fucking bitch sister kidnapped Damon and Alaric,” she says, by way of hello. “All I have is rings. And _fingernails_.”

Elijah is silent a long moment, and then he sighs. “I see.”

“She has a cloaking spell on them. It’s powerful. I can’t find them. But since she left the souvenirs at the boarding house, I assume they’re nearby.”

“Indeed.”

“Will you help?” There is a command in her voice, but Bonnie isn’t too worried; Elijah has respect for power, and respect for witches.

“I’ll be in Mystic Falls by noon tomorrow. I ask you don’t look any further afield until I get there.”

“Does that mean you -”

“I can make a reasonable guess. Goodnight, Miss Bennett.”

It’s then that Bonnie realizes – stupid, stupid – that the only place in the whole of Mystic Falls where Rebekah could reasonably conceal herself, the witches she has to have with her, and Damon and Alaric is, of course, the Mikaelsen house.

 

**

 

“I’m not talking anymore. We’ve said the same thing over and over. I think you’re just enjoying yourself, now.” Alaric coughs, again, and watches helplessly as Rebekah slices a fresh cut across the plane of Damon’s chest. “Just stop. Please. We’ll help. We’ll talk to Elijah.”

“I don’t think you know what it means, to be lonely,” Rebekah says. Alaric can barely hear Damon’s heart beat. “You’ve got _him_. And all those temporary humans. I have no one. I haven’t seen Kol in nine years. My mother has Finn holed up in the mountains, teaching him to speak English and use cutlery. Elijah has no patience for me.”

“We’ll help. I swear. We’ll get Klaus back to you. Just stop.”

Damon hasn’t lifted his head in far too long.

“I don’t believe you,” Rebekah says, and buries a knife into the side of Damon’s throat.

Turns out, it’s actually enough; the knife itself, or the fact that Damon doesn’t flinch when it goes in. Despite the fact that he’s been fighting the chains for days, Alaric pulls them straight out of the wall and throws himself at Rebekah, wrapping the heavy links around her neck. He can’t kill her, obviously, but if he can snap her neck, give himself a temporary reprieve, he’ll do that instead.

Somehow the combination of the shock of seeing Alaric tear himself from the wall and the fact she has both hands full torturing Damon means Alaric does, indeed, manage; Rebekah’s head rolls uselessly. Alaric piles the chains on top of her and turns to Damon.

A moment later – and it’s been no longer than five seconds since he took himself off the wall – two humans race in with stakes and those stupid fucking water pistols and attack.

It’s really too much. Alaric sinks his fangs into the carotid artery of one, even as the other is trying to stake him. That one, he throws across the room, hard, but he doesn’t stop drinking until the man he is drinking from is dead. Drained.

Gone, completely gone.

Alaric rears back.

Maybe he’s got vampire blood in him. Maybe Rebekah keeps them strung out. Maybe he’ll be okay.

“Ric.”

Damon’s eyes are barely open.

“Want to. Get me down?”

Alaric feels physically so much better already, blood working through his cells, healing the cuts on his chest and arms, that he can’t yet think about the fact that he’s just killed someone. Pulling the stakes out of Damon’s legs, stomach, and lung makes them both wince. Tearing the chains off Damon’s arms isn’t easy, but it’s not hard, really, either. Damon slumps against Alaric, and Alaric helps him to the ground.

“Need blood.”

Alaric flinches. “I… finished that one.”

“His friend?”

Alaric reaches to where the human is broken, crumpled on the ground. He checks for a pulse.

No pulse. Shit.

“Dead.”

“Only just.”

Alaric pulls him to Damon’s side. Damon drains him, quickly and efficiently. “You think this dungeon locks from the outside?”

Alaric can’t tear his eyes from the bodies.

“She’s going to wake up, Ric. And soon. We have to leave.”

Rebekah’s hand has begun to twitch. Alaric helps Damon to his feet.

Alaric can’t quite breathe evenly; still healing, he supposes, but he knows that’s not it. “I killed them. Both.”

“Yeah, well, they’re the bad guys. Fuck, I wish we had a dagger. Or an Elijah. Or an Elijah with a dagger.”

The door has a wide bolt which does, indeed, lock it from the outside; not enough to hold Rebekah but enough to keep her there a while.

From above them, at the top of the stairs, light seeps in. “Can’t tell if that’s artificial, or daylight,” Damon groans, and leans against the wall. “Where do you think she put our rings?” Alaric leans as well.

There is a blur of movement, and another pair of humans wielding stakes and those fucking water pistols appear at the entry to the basement corridor. Damon and Alaric are doused, and it’s so fucking painful; and the next thing he knows, Alaric has one of them on the ground. The man has staked him, but missed his heart by miles, and his blood is the best thing Alaric has ever tasted. His slowing heart rate brings Alaric a strange peace.

He could stop; the guy’s not getting up any time soon. He has time to call an ambulance, something.

He doesn’t; he drinks until the man is dead.

Alaric reels back, and sits with his back flush against the wall. Damon searches through the pockets of the guy he’s just eaten. “No cell.”

Alaric does the same. “Not -”

Suddenly, Rebecca throws herself against the door. “I’ll kill you both!” She calls. “I will!”

Damon pulls on Alaric’s arm, but Alaric has begun seriously debating just staying here, now, and letting the first person to find him kill him and have it over with.

“C’mon, Ric,” Damon says, and his face is twisted. “Bad guys. Doesn’t count.”

It does, though.

Still Alaric follows him, and they are halfway up the steps that will lead them to – Alaric isn’t sure, but out of the basement – when the door opens, and miraculously, there is Elijah. With a dagger.

“Is she – apparently so. Wait here. Bonnie will be along with your rings, in a moment. It’s broad daylight, you don’t want to go up any further.”

Elijah doesn’t spare a look for the dead men on the ground, as he blurs to the door. Alaric wishes he would.

In the cell there is a sound like rocks crashing together, and Rebekah screams like someone pulled her hair. “Where is he? Where’s Nik? You can’t keep -”

And then nothing.

Elijah steps out, rubbing dust from his hands.

“Are you both alright?”

Alaric doesn’t even know how to answer. He is still healing, but quickly; the frustrating itch across his chest is fading to a mild irritation.

Damon shakes his head. “This is… Klaus’s place?” He grunts. “The decorating down here isn’t as tasteless as it is up there. Didn’t realize.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow. “Torture dungeon? That’s a look you enjoy?”

“Better than Motel Six art and Pottery Barn crap everywhere.”

Alaric is about to explode. “I just killed three people.” They can’t have realized this. Or they wouldn’t be talking about the décor. “Do you – I just killed three people.”

“People that were coming at us with stakes, Ric.” There is a warning in Damon’s voice. “Doesn’t. Count.”

Bonnie peeks in, with someone they don’t know behind her. A witch, Alaric thinks, but one without a lot of power. “Is she down?”

Elijah nods. “I’ll need you to spell me a coffin, and then I’ll take her and put her with Niklaus.”

Bonnie holds out the rings, and Damon takes them.

Alaric almost can’t bear to put his on – they feel like a symbol for what he was before, fifteen minutes – an hour – ten years ago. He manages, anyway.

“The witches got away, Elijah,” Bonnie says.

Elijah nods. “I thought they might. I will catch up to them. Eventually.”

Bonnie turns to Damon and Alaric. “I’ve brought blood,” she says.

“We’re okay,” Damon answers, and they walk up into the mansion.

 

**

 

Back at the boarding house, Damon and Alaric shower, separately, rooms apart. Wash days of filth from their bodies, and blood from underneath fingernails and where it is matted through hair. They change their clothes. Place the ruined garments in a trash bag.

Damon is cautious. But Alaric’s rules – his words, years ago – if he killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill them, or one of their people, he’d take his ring off and march into the sunrise.

There is no way this counts. Right?

They sit in the library, sit close. Bonnie’s friend Jack is friendly, but quiet. Damon makes little effort to draw him into conversation. Alaric warms a glass of bourbon in his hand.

Damon wants to ask him, _are you alright?_ Tell him, promise him, _everything is okay_. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Those guys wanted them dead and would have succeeded, if they were any weaker, if they were still chained to the walls of the dungeon.

“Ric…”

Alaric throws back the bourbon. “I just need some time,” he says, and heads up the stairs.

Damon knows better than to chase him.

“’e ’as taken lives, your ’usband. ’e needs to become used to that.”

“What do you know about it?” Damon narrows his eyes.

“Far less than you,” Jack agrees, and falls silent.

Bonnie and Elijah return to the house, eventually. “I told Elena you were in Europe. Didn’t want her to come back to Mystic. You work it out between you, what you want to say. It’s not my business.”

Damon nods. “I don’t take this lightly, Bonnie.”

She nods. “We’ll stay here another night, drive back in the morning.”

Damon agrees. After a brief silence, Elijah clears his throat.

“I shall remove Rebekah’s dagger when I wake Niklaus. When Elena’s life is over, and she cannot be used to make more hybrids.” Elijah stands neatly, with his hands tucked in his pockets. “I am having her collected by a removals company tomorrow. I shall spend the night at Niklaus’s house, tonight. Damon. A word?”

Damon follows Elijah out to the porch.

“He won’t recover from this easily.”

Damon shrugs. “He’ll be fine.”

It should be said, Damon doesn’t believe this. At all. Fuck the storm; this is like skipping the storm and going straight for the tsunami. He’s going to have to watch Alaric like a hawk.

Elijah is just standing there.

“Got something else you want to say?”

“I haven’t seen you in a very long time. I would have hoped for better circumstances.”

Damon shrugs. “Maybe you can keep Kol away from us. That should make circumstances better for next time.”

“I have no concerns about him. He has no interest in our brother.” Elijah tugs on the cuffs of his shirt, and runs a hand through his hair. “Call me if Alaric is struggling. I’ve know precisely three vampires, in a thousand years, who determined they would never kill anyone.” He sighs. “It is a very difficult road.”

“Any of them make it?”

Elijah shrugs. “No.”

He claps Damon high on the shoulder, and takes off at a blur.

 

**

 

_One week later_

Damon explains what happened to Elena and Matt on the way back to Mystic Falls from the airport in Charlottesville, while Jenna sleeps in the car seat.

“Bonnie said -”

“Bonnie lied.” Damon sighs. “Didn’t want you coming back.”

“So why isn’t Alaric here now?”

“Because,” Damon starts, “he’s sitting in the attic. Staring out the window. Which is what he does now. When he’s not out hunting for fucking squirrels.”

Elena pales. “He’s drinking animal blood?”

Damon puts his face in his hand. “Yep. Not even interested in bagged blood.”

“But Damon, doesn’t that mean…”

Matt is less cool. “He can’t be alone with Jenna.” He shakes his head. “Not until he’s under control.”

Damon doesn’t even argue. “Still. Bring her to the house? Come on. She makes him feel alive.”

Matt and Elena share a look, in the rear view mirror.

“Tomorrow,” Elena says.

 

**

 

_Six weeks later_

Damon doesn’t knock on the attic trap door, and he doesn’t speak, either. He crosses the room, with its low ceiling and large window to sit alongside Alaric. He doesn’t touch Alaric, or try to talk to him, not yet. He just sits.

For six weeks, Damon has told himself every day that if he sticks with this long enough, Alaric will speak eventually. Today, he’s going to make him.

“They left.”

Alaric nods.

“We have to talk about this eventually.”

Alaric shrugs.

“They were coming to kill us.”

“I know.”

“So what’s the fucking problem, Ric? You going to stay up here forever?”

“No.”

“So, how much longer?”

“I don’t know.”

Out the window, it’s a cold day, even for February. The air is still and there was frost on the ground this morning, and fuck, why can’t Damon find the right fucking thing to say? “Hiding from the world isn’t going to make this go away.”

“’m not. Hiding.”

“No?”

“’m thinking.”

Thinking. Right. Thinking and randomly disappearing into the fucking woods to eat Stefan’s little buddies. “You need to be around people. Humans.”

“Great. And when I kill Elena? Or Jenna?”

Damon sighs. “You won’t.”

Alaric shakes his head.

Damon gives it another half an hour, and then slips downstairs to drink and brood and think up a plan E. When he hears the front door open, a little later, he sends up a prayer for the squirrels and calls Elena.

 

**

 

Elena swings the attic door open and climbs inside. Alaric is immediately defensive.

“You shouldn’t be here, Elena.” He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. I just need some time.”

“Well, you’re running out of it. My daughter – your _goddaughter_ – is throwing tantrums and screaming your name. You’re breaking her heart.”

Elena crosses her arms.

Alaric turns. “She’s saying my name?”

Elena wants to cry. Won’t, though. She stands with her arms crossed, instead. “She won’t even go to Damon. She’s confused. She misses you.”

Alaric turns away again. “I’ll be fine. Soon. I just… can’t, not yet.”

“You’re scared you’re going to turn into Stefan.” Alaric says nothing. “It never occurred to you that trying to stay off human blood is what made him lose control in the first place? You need a normal diet.”

“Please, just go. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Elena takes a step forward, and tries not to react to the fact Alaric takes a step back, hitting his head on a low strut. “They were going to kill you, Ric. If you were human, it would be a clear cut case of self-defense.”

“But I’m not and they were. There’s nothing clear-cut about it. Please, Elena. Just go. I’ll be fine.”

“Ric…”

“I mean it. Please. I can smell you from here.”

Elena stills, and shakes her head. “Of course you can. You always can. You’ve never snapped and bitten me before. What makes you think you would now?”

“I said go.”

For a moment, his features flash, but Elena is certain he’s posturing. He’s not going to lose control. He wouldn’t have then, either, if not for… fuck. Elena has no idea what to say.

Alaric was her guardian, and her mentor, and now he is her friend, and her daughter’s godfather, and she has absolutely no idea what to say.

“Are you still here?”

Elena has barely climbed down onto the stairway when something heavy is dropped on top of the trap door. She pauses, and sighs, and descends the stairwell.

In the library, Jenna fusses in Damon’s lap. She squirms and fights and will not settle. “Ric,” she insists, and starts to cry again.

“We should film that and send it to his phone,” Elena says, taking Jenna back. “Who could resist?”

Damon rubs his eyes. “If I have to go to bed with blue balls one more time I’m going to start killing bunnies myself. And not for food. Just for the bliss of it.”

“Too much information, Damon,” Elena sing-songs, while Jenna gnaws aggressively on her bear. “He’s sleeping up there, too?”

Damon doesn’t answer. He just grunts.

“What’s your plan… ‘F’?”

“What’s the process for divorce after a hand-binding?”

Elena shakes her head. “You’re an ass,” she says, but she studies his face a long time.

Eventually, Damon rolls his eyes. “Relax. It was a joke. Ninety percent a joke.”

 

**

 

Damon lies alone in the bed he should be sharing, one hand behind his head, and listens to Alaric roll his empty glass over the floor boards above his head. Over and over, while Damon stares at the ceiling, old cracks telling tales. The bed is so big, alone. He doesn’t know how he handled it before.

He climbs out from the sheets, collects pillows and a blanket, and pads across the floor to the door. Holds his hand on the doorknob for a long moment. The glass continues its slow roll.

Fuck it.

Damon walks to the stairwell and up the million stairs and pushes through the trap door.

“Jesus Christ,” Alaric says. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Damon nods, crossing the small space. “Of course I did. You’re drinking animal blood. Your sense are dulled. You’re weak. And scared generally.”

“Don’t start.”

“Not here to fight,” Damon says, arranging the pillows and blanket on the floor. “When was the last time you slept longer than a couple of hours?”

Alaric shakes his head, but shuffles over to lie back against the pillows anyway.

It’s been weeks since he even kissed Alaric. Damon does this now. Leans on one elbow and takes Alaric’s face in his other hand, and presses one long, firm, determined kiss to his mouth.

Alaric kisses back. It’s not an invitation, or an affirmation. It tastes like an apology.

“You can’t stay up here forever,” Damon says, in a low, toneless voice.

“I won’t,” Alaric promises. “I just need…”

“Time. I get it.”

Damon settles back, shapes his body around Alaric’s; and resists the urge to say _I have needs, too_. Incredibly impressive and grown up, he thinks, as he settles his arm across Alaric’s chest.

 

 

_Mid-March_

Damon and Elena sit at the Grill, outside, in the sun. Jenna slurps contentedly at a cup of foamed milk. Damon can’t prevent himself from separating the strands of her hair with his fingers.

“Elijah?” Elena suggests.

“He’s like an alien being,” Damon argues. “He’s just too different.”

Plan G is, there has to be someone in the wide world who Alaric will listen to.

“I’ve been thinking Stefan. Because -”

“You’re joking, right?” Damon rubs his forehead. Alaric and Stefan get along okay, these days – but that would be like sending Jeffrey Dahmer to cheer up a guy that ran over someone who stepped out into the street at the wrong time. _It’s cool! I’ve killed loads more people than you_.

“Caroline?”

Caroline killed her first day out, with no real idea of what was happening to her; killed a couple of her mom’s deputies, too, but not since. Although…

No.

“She forgave Stefan. It won’t mean a thing to Ric that she’s cool with him. Elena…”

Elena breaks off a piece of her cake and moves to put it into Jenna’s waiting hand. Jenna, however, has lost interest in the cake, and her eyes are bright on Elena’s.

“Ric?”

Damon’s shoulders drop. “We have to get that on video,” he says. He pulls out his camera phone, too, but only in time for Jenna to be entirely focused on the cake. She mashes it against her mouth. Damon puts the phone down.

“Such a pretty day,” Elena says.

“Fucked for the squirrels,” Damon says. Elena shoots him a look, and he winces. No swearing in front of Jenna, fuckety fuck, etc. Not now she has started repeating words, anyway. And what kid will repeat ‘flower’ or ‘kitty’ when ‘fuck’ has such a nice ring to it?

Elena wipes Jenna’s mouth. “We need someone who… is zero tolerance, you know? Judgmental. Harsh, even. But understands?”

“Liz?” Damon actually likes this idea.

“Not zero tolerance enough,” Elena says, and it sounds like a contradiction. “Because of Caroline. Plus I know you three drink together. Or drank together.”

“You know much about Care’s friend? Darcy? Lexie’s meat puppet?”

But Elena has her phone in her hand, scrolling through the contacts.

“Who are you calling?” Damon asks.

Elena smiles.

A week later, Damon paces, impatient, at the arrivals gate, for almost an hour. Bonnie’s plane is late. He’s characteristically impatient. Wants this to work.

Bonnie is unbelievably fucking perfect. She saw the state they were in. And fuck, beyond any reasonable expectation, she’d shown up to help them in the first place. She hated Damon. Well, she used to hate Damon. He is pleased to imagine that now, they have a grudging mutual respect.

Maybe.

She arrives, eventually.

“For the record,” she says, “I still don’t like you, much. And I don’t have a clue why you think this is going to work. But I care about Alaric.”

“Love the total lack of ambiguity. And I am very glad to see you.” Damon takes her case, when it arrives, and they drive back to Mystic Falls.

 

**

 

When Bonnie tries to push the trap door up, there is something heavy on top of it. She rolls her eyes, and sends it away with her mind. Enjoys the low, muttered curses Alaric utters.

“Hi, Ric,” she says, as she pushes her way into the attic.

“Bonnie…”

“Oh, don’t _Bonnie_ me.” She lets the door shut with a thud and settle into place. “This is not  a good look for you,” she adds. “Why are you doing this?”

“You know what I did.”

“I know you killed people who were coming to kill you,” she says, as she crosses the room. Perhaps no one has approached him so fearlessly before. “And I know Elena – and others – would be dead, if not for you. So I wish you’d try to be a bit reasonable about all this.” She stands at the window. “Pretty view. Still, you have to be getting sick of it.”

“I’m not a shut-in. I leave.”

“You leave to hunt squirrels, dude. Same view from a different angle.”

Alaric’s shoulders collapse, a little.

“This is getting ridiculous. You must know that.”

Alaric shrugs. “Define ridiculous. As a witch to a vampire. Go on. I dare you.”

“Ridiculous is you spending months hiding up here. Ridiculous is you refusing to eat a proper diet, when you know full well it only makes things worse when you won’t.” She meets Alaric’s eyes, but he can’t hold her gaze long. “How am I doing so far?”

Alaric slumps to the ground. His back against the wall. Arms looped loosely over his knees.

“They were trying to kill you.”

“I know.”

“Then talk to me. Next up Damon’s going to call Elijah, and I doubt you want to talk to him.” Alaric winces. “I know it was terrible. But -”

“It wasn’t terrible.”

Bonnie does her best not to react. She sits down, back against the glass. “It wasn’t terrible,” she repeats.

“I… enjoyed it.” Alaric crosses his arms over his chest. “It felt like the most natural thing in the world.” He lets his eyes close. “So you should be scared, now. You should go.”

Bonnie thinks for a long moment. And then laughs.

“You’re a vampire, Ric.”

“Starting to realize that.” He sounds so sad.

“All sorts of things feel good. For me, god, I love to bring about a storm. Nothing makes me feel more alive. But I started one, once, that didn’t stop for days. Trees were torn from their roots.”

“Anyone die?”

“No. I was lucky.” Bonnie stretches a little further. “When I’m in a bad mood, god, I just want to do it again. Feel the lashing rain… see people running. You know?” She shrugs. “I don’t fuck with the weather any more. And Ric… people do all sorts of things that hurt them, or someone else, because they feel good in some way. Use drugs. Cut their arms. If you like doing something destructive you decide not to do it anymore and you find something else.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not.”

Alaric stares out the window.

Bonnie is good at quite a few things. She’s a powerful witch, a passable cook. A very fast reader. But one of the things she does best is stay silent for so long that the person she is with eventually feels the desperate need to fill the silence up with sound.

“I decided before I turned that I’d never kill anyone.”

“That’s not a choice you can make once,” Bonnie says. “It’s a choice you have to make every day. Every time you drink.”

Alaric’s face drops into his hand.

Tears seem like progress, so Bonnie stares out the window. A man’s tears should be private, she thinks.

The trees… God, Philadelphia is home, but she misses the trees in Mystic Falls. They go on for days. And this time of year. Already the leaves are starting to change, fire across the tops. One tree green and the next a brilliant gold. A part of Bonnie wants to come home more often but it is only the small, strange part of her that thinks of Mystic as home. The part that misses her Grams, and playing pool at the Grill, before there were witches and vampires and werewolves and all of that.

“You should go.”

Bonnie shakes her head. “No. Not yet. You need to drink.”

Alaric looks confused.

“I brought a blood bag and so help me if I have to hold you down with magic to make you drink it, you’re going to drink it.”

Confused gives way to pissed off and terrified. “Not gonna happen.”

Bonnie snips the corner off the bag, and hands it over.

See, Elena has it wrong. She talks about blood – and more specifically, Stefan’s problems with it – as if it was a drug. But it’s not. This is more like an eating disorder. A person can survive without their substance of choice – a vampire can’t survive without blood. Living off animal blood is like following some crazy raw-food salt-free vegan crap. You torture yourself without a diet that strong, sure you’re gonna end up chowing down on a dozen Happy Meals in the heat of the moment, when you’re starving or pissed off at the world.

Alaric is across the attic, trying to pull the trap door open, but Bonnie’s magic is faster. The trap door won’t open.

“You’re going to drink this, Alaric. Step one.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. And you will.” She sighs. “And then you are going to go downstairs, and spend some time with Damon, who loves you. And who you seem to harbor some bizarre affection for as well, despite his innumerable flaws. And then you’re going to spend the next few weeks getting used to being around Elena, and Matt, and Jenna, who calls your name, even though you’re never there to hear it.”

Alaric is still trying to pull the trap door open.

“Stop being such a baby.” Bonnie holds out the blood. “And drink slowly.”

“How is this your business?” Alaric makes no move to take the bag.

“Because if you end up an out-of-control ripper d-bag I will have to do everything in my power to kill you. And I don’t like killing people.”

Anger and resentment gives way to something a little sad, and Alaric takes the blood bag. He slips slowly, reluctantly. When it is half gone, he pauses.

“See?” says Bonnie. “Now do you want to tear my throat out?”

Alaric looks up. “Well, you _are_ kind of self-righteous and annoying.” He has a smile on his face, though. “What happens if I want to kill again, though? It’s not -”

“You decide not to. Every time. The way Damon learned. The way Caroline did. Stefan still struggles every day but he hasn’t… killed anyone since Care put him through rehab.”

Alaric finishes the bag, and folds it up neatly so it won’t dribble. He meets Bonnie’s eyes, briefly. “Can you give me a minute?”

“A minute,” she promises. “Or so help me god, I _will_ give you an aneurysm. I’ll keep them coming until Meredith Fell herself has to come and help.”

And she opens the trap door easily, and trips lightly down the stairs.

Damon, in the library, looks concerned, but hopeful. “It’s okay,” Bonnie says. “He’ll be down in a minute. I’m going to Matt and Elena’s. Give you guys some space.”

 

**

 

So it’s five minutes; not too bad. Damon waits, standing by the fire, and eventually, Alaric enters the library. Once he is close, he meets Damon’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“No need to be.” Because it’s true.

Alaric’s hands twitch at his sides, and that’s enough; vertical, they are not prone to hugging, but Damon takes Alaric in his arms, and they press fresh strength into each other. Damon feels Alaric start to relax against him, one arm over Damon’s shoulder, the other around his hip.

“I’m not alright.”

“I know.” Damon takes Alaric’s bottom lip between his teeth, and gives a gentle tug. “You don’t have to be. You just have to be getting better.” Fuck, it sounds so… _mature_. Damon is impressed with himself.

Storm’s not past, yet, but it’s passing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Alaric killing people - even bad guys - was harder than I thought it would be! But this absolutely had to happen.  
> More upheaval next episode and then let's have some smut, 'mkay?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has tweeted me ideas and encouragement, DMd me or left reviews. Thank you!  
> Credit to Saltzatore: We talked for ages one night about who we thought might actually be able to get through to Alaric after this happened. Thanks doll, much paella :D  
> Credit to ellensmithee: Who made the point to me once that Stefan's problem was more akin to an eating disorder than a substance use problem.


	11. 2022 - A new home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon and Alaric have been in Mystic Falls for over ten years, and they're not getting any older.

“You look… dapper,” Alaric says, from his place there on the couch.

“I have a date.” Damon waggles his eyebrows, lewd, and Alaric laughs.

“A date.”

“A date.”

“Are we Mormons now?”

Damon shrugs. “You’re not going to ask who with?”

Alaric puts down his book, amused. Alaric looks good, amused. It suits him well. “I’ll bite. Who is your ‘date’ with?”

“The Mayor.” Damon sticks his nose in the air, like he thinks he sounds impressive. The Mayor. Alaric snorts. Perhaps he’s remembering, as Damon is, a night  couple of years back when Carol got drunk enough to admit that while she hadn’t actually grown up in trailer park per se, she’d lived in one for a few years. Part of what made her set her sights on marrying well. “Come on. You gotta admit, she’s still smoking hot.”

“I really don’t have to admit that. At all.” Still Alaric looks amused. “Just tell me I don’t have to come.”

“No. We can do without a chaperone.”

“Don’t get her pregnant,” Alaric warns. “You know how that turned out for Richard.” He returns to his book.

Damon stands for a long moment, and then crosses to the couch, bending to rest his arms against it. Alaric looks up. “Am I supposed to be acting like the jealous husband here?”

He looks a little tired, but happy, comfortable in his second favorite place in the world (because you can’t stay in bed all day, can you? Well, not every day). Things are good. Better.

“No,” Damon promises, and leans to land a brief, firm kiss on Alaric’s mouth. “Love you,” he says.

“You too,” Alaric says. “Everything…?”

Damon nods. “Don’t wait up,” he singsongs, sauntering across the library and out of the front door.

No real reason to drive but no reason not to, and anyway, Damon loves making everybody look at his car. Because it is a cool car, no question. He glides into a park outside the Grill and quickly finds Carol Lockwood, looking nervous, smack in the middle of the room. Wearing her usual elegant dress and jacket combo, pearls and all. Hair set perfectly. Damon takes the seat opposite.

“You know I’m married, right?” he smirks. “It’s not a Green Card thing.”

Carol smiles a wry, twisted smile. “Very droll.” She pours a glass of wine. “We need to talk.”

“We need to talk at the Grill?”

“I’m making a point.” She fusses with the cutlery, rearranging it, and then again. “That you’re a part of the community, and of the council, and that I… trust you.”

Damon snorts. Still, whatever, she wants dinner. They order.

“What’s on your mind, Carol,” Damon asks.

Carol fusses with the edge of a napkin, breathing quite deliberately, a little too deeply.

“Spit it,” Damon says.

Carol takes a deep breath. “You know I – we – the –”

Damon waits.

“You and Alaric have done a lot to keep this town safe,” Carol says. “I know it. Liz knows it. And a couple of the others.”

“If you want to give us the key to the city, Carol, that’s cool. No parade, though.”

Carol shoots Damon a withering look, but can’t hold it. She looks pale. Sick?

“Tear the band-aid off, Carol,” Damon warns.

Carol spins the stem of her wine glass between two fingers. “You have to leave. Both of you. You have to move away. And soon.”

And of course they do. In one hundred and fifty-something years as a vampire Damon has never stayed in one place this long. People have started to comment that he and Alaric are ageing altogether too gracefully.

Truthfully, they should have left years ago. But undead existential crisis, tiny Donovan, torture, PTSD, blah, blah… yeah, fuck, no good excuse. Damon picks at his risotto.

It’s not as good as Damon’s own risotto, so there’s that.

“I know,” he says. “We’ll go.”

Carol looks ready to argue, and then seems to really hear what Damon has said. “You will?”

Alaric is Getting There. But he is just so fucking _young_. He has no idea about the life they have to lead. The deceptions. The changes they have to make. The changes _Alaric_ has to make. This is going to be one of those fucking awful conversations.

The people who see them day-to-day might not be thinking too much about them (beyond the hilarity of the fact they do appear to be the only gay married couple in Mystic Falls) but anyone who has been gone a while and comes back is going to look at them and immediately think: those guys are aging altogether too well.

Damon shrugs. “We’ll go. Soon.” The problem might be the stock. Risotto is soul food. You can’t use powdered stock. It has to be the real thing. You should want to drink the stock _by itself_ before you even start to add it to the Arborio rice, which should by then be beginning to cook in butter and drowning in garlic and telling Alaric he has to leave Mystic Falls is going to suck so badly Damon feels like killing something instead.

Still. Yes. Has to happen. Before they get a fire-wielding mob of Virginians burning the boarding house down, with Damon and Alaric inside.

“Dessert?” Damon raises his eyebrows. “Or is that taking the date one step too far?”

Carol cocks her chin. With that expression Damon would have no trouble believing she’d been born noble. “At my age, I see no reason to skip dessert,” she says.

Before leaving the Grill, Carol shakes hands with prominent citizens. Damon loves that expression. Prominent citizens. For some reason it sounds like a euphemism for dick. There’s something sort of cute about small town life.

Outside, he thinks for a terrible moment that Carol is going to hug him. There’s a hesitancy in her step.

“I’m asking you to leave. But I’m… asking you to be ready to come back, if we need you.”

Fuckety- _fuck_.

Because they’ll do it. Damon has managed to avoid all this complicated caught-up-with-humans bullshit for a really fucking long time but no question, he has a goddamn family, now. A _family_. Alaric is his fucking husband, however the hell that happened. The Donovans, Jesus, he has a goddaughter, of all the ridiculous things. If vampires return to Mystic – or werewolves or a crooked cop – they’ll be back. It makes him almost, but not quite, physically sick, makes him long for the days when he killed people when he was hungry, instead of coaching Alaric in Sage’s snatch-eat-wipe philosophy. He frowns.

“We’ll come back.”

Carol nods, and waits.

“Can you give us a few months?”

Carol pauses. “A few months can’t make much of a difference, now,” she says. “But Damon… months. Not a year. You have to go.”

They shake hands, and Damon climbs into his car, and drives away.

 

**

 

The night air is pleasantly cool, Alaric thinks, though it is hard to tell, sometimes; here is air, and it is pleasant. It’s dark in this alley, light struggling through the gloom of the heavy cloud. It will rain, in an hour or two.

Alaric realizes slowly, and then all at once, that he passed hesitancy a good ten minutes ago and has entered the realm of procrastination. Damon rolls his eyes.

“Come on. You can do this. You have to, or Bonnie will stake you.”

Alaric is not amused.

Damon frowns. “I don’t want to remind you that you were fine in the early days.”

And it’s true. He was. So Alaric turns the woman’s arm in his hands, lets his fangs descend, and bites down gently.

It’s true, he has no desire to kill her, even when he can taste her blood, feel the way it rushes his mouth like it _wants_ to be drunk; fresh from the source is just so much better, makes him feel stronger. And it tastes so fucking good.

And realistically, a pint every few days is enough. He can do this. Alaric withdraws his fangs, and licks away the last of the blood that seeps from the wound. Lets his features settle back to human, before he meets the woman’s eyes.

“Hello,” she says, and it seems like a weird thing to say; still, rude not to answer, so Alaric says hello back.

Also; “You won’t remember this.”

“I won’t.” She agrees.

Alaric swipes a fang across his own thumb, and pushes it between the woman’s lips. Just enough of his own blood to heal her and send her off feeling sort of awesome, the way Alaric remembers he used to.

As she wanders away, Alaric shakes his head, trying to clear the rush, and licks his lips. Feels his eyes open and close, and when they open again, Damon’s eyes are on him.

“Alright?”

Alaric nods.

Damon narrows his eyes.

“I’m fine. How long are you going to treat me like a powder keg?” But he’s grateful.

“Haven’t decided,” Damon says airily, and then they head to the Dog and Pony for some adolescent-free drinking.

In a booth, they tangle their feet together, out of sight, and Alaric can’t help but cock his chin a little. He does feel okay. It’s been over a year since… okay, so he can’t quite make himself think about it, but it’s been over a year since it happened and yes, things are… okay. Okayish. No animal blood in months and he’s managed to drink from the source for the first time since…

Yes, that.

Alaric finishes his drink quickly, and calls for another.

“Why are we here?”

“Booze,” Damon says. “And, y’know, humans. They’re fun to watch.”

Across the room, a terrible first date is unfolding – the guy is leaning halfway across the table and gesturing madly and the girl is sitting very straight against the back of her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. The guy has gravy on his sleeve. The girl looks concerned she will end up covered in it.

Damon has a strange look on his face. Alaric doesn’t feel up to deciphering it. That particular Look has been present too much lately. Clearly, there’s something on Damon’s mind. Alaric leans back into the lush cushion of the booth.

“You seem good,” Damon says at last.

Alaric shrugs. “I feel okay.

“Not planning on marching into the sunrise without your ring on?”

Alaric has to smile. “No time soon.” He watches the girl pretend she’s had a message on her phone, and make an excuse to leave; he listens to her apologize, and truly, it’s terrible. She’s a bad liar.

Damon is still watching Alaric.

“What?” Alaric meets his eyes. “Come on. Didn’t I just make major progress?”

“Yep. You did.”

“So…?”

Damon shrugs. “You look hot in black.”

Alaric laughs out loud. “Then maybe we should be at home, drinking in front of the fireplace?”

Damon nods. “Maybe we should.”

 

**

 

It had taken a while, getting back into their old rhythm, but they had gotten there; Damon coaxed Alaric back gently, and then less gently, until they were back to fucking in every corner of the boarding house again. Elena would never walk in without knocking ever again. Ever. Ever.

They’ve made it to a bedroom, their own, apparently, and torn themselves from each other for long enough to strip down, and meet again. Alaric, it should be said, feels fantastic; much as he would like to deny it fresh blood, straight from the source, is far and away the best way to go. He feels full, strong, heavy, his cock impossibly long and impossibly hard, crashing over Damon on the bed.

Easy to just bend Damon over and fuck him, but maybe he wants to take his time.

Alaric presses his lips to Damon’s neck, scrapes his teeth across the skin, there, tastes bourbon and sweat and Damon. Sinks his teeth in, a little, and feels Damon’s moan better than he hears it. Runs a strong hand over the musculature of Damon’s chest and stomach, over Damon’s erection, pressing and palming and rubbing his thumb over the tip.

“Jesus fuck, Ric, _that_ ,” Damon mutters, and Alaric chuckles, rocking against Damon’s body, feeling him warm by steady degrees, the edges of Alaric’s vision going foggy.

The world isn’t quite right, yet, maybe, but it’s getting there. Alaric is still uncomfortable around people, too aware of their scents, but that’s getting easier with time. Harder to get used to is the sense of being un-tethered, of not fitting in any more; really comprehending, for the first time, how different he is now. Alaric has started to understand why vampires are so often solitary, why they leave families behind; perhaps it’s easier to feel so alone and separate when you truly _are_ alone, and separate.

He had caught sight of himself in a mirror in the bar, the other day, and would have mistaken himself for Stefan, a few years back. The grim posture, something of the cock of his chin. The way his arms across his chest gave him the look of someone trying to hold himself in.

He’d uncrossed his arms instantly, and stood up straighter. Damon had noticed, too, given a little smirk.

Balls deep in Damon now, with Damon’s legs over his shoulders, almost bent in half so they can keep kissing, too perfect. Alaric quickens the pace, and bites into Damon’s neck, just a little. He licks away the blood.

“I fucking love it when you do that,” Damon says, voice breathy. Lips swollen.

Yeah, things are getting better.

And this, this is definitely awesome. This is like the old days. Better. There’s a new equality to it. Damon lets out a moan, and Alaric eats it, the rough velvet texture of Damon’s tongue against his own.

Alaric feels his balls swell and tighten, and Damon tensing beneath him, one hand on the back of Alaric’s neck, eyes wide and glittering. Face twitching gorgeously as he comes, hard, digging his fingernails into Alaric’s flesh.

Alaric follows, moments later, and it feels so good, because it always feels so fucking good, but there’s a loss, too, in a way. Stupid, really, because they can go all night, but _now_ is always better than _soon_.

Alaric lets Damon rearrange himself – Damon is like a contortionist, but sated, now, it’s nice to just lie together, covered in each other’s bodily fluids, sweat and come and a little blood, too.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t manage to kill each other, in the beginning,” Damon says.

“Indeed,” Alaric agrees, still breathing hard, stretching out.

Alaric breathes a good long time. He doesn’t need to, he’s not speaking. He just breathes, and enjoys the odd calm that brings.

 

**

 

Council meeting. Endless fucking things.

Once a month or so, since the beginning of time. Everyone gets together to talk about how great it is that there are no vampires in Mystic Falls and pretend that two of their number aren’t, y’know, totally failing to age.

The adorable human tendency to ignore the obvious.

Alaric leans against Carol Lockwood’s desk, arms crossed over his chest, and shakes his head when asked if there is anything he wants to contribute. Damon smiles a touch, from his place, standing by a bookshelf.

“Well, I guess that means things are still quiet. Good work, people. A light supper and drinks will be served out in the parlor.” Carol smiles broadly.

And really, though he’d never go there, Damon thinks, Carol shouldn’t still be alone. The legs alone. For a woman in her fifties, she really is still smoking hot. Whatever Alaric thinks. Damon lets his gaze drift to Liz Forbes. Her, too. There was a time Damon thought very seriously about going there. Just for kicks. Good looking woman.

Before Alaric showed up, of course.

Maybe a touch of compulsion, just enough to give it a shot, and Liz and Carol could share a bit of a sea-change. Very interesting idea.

The rest of the council drifts out, and Damon moves to follow them, when a young man – perhaps a touch younger than Jeremy – knocks on the door.

“Mayor Lockwood?” he asks.

Carol smiles. “Can I help you?”

“You don’t recognize me.” It’s not a question. The guy puts his hand out, and Carol shakes it. “Jackson Fell.”

Oh, a Fell. They’re like Catholics. Thousands of them, breeding like rabbits. They tend to be wiry, and small, where Lockwoods are hulks. Most of them look at least a little bit stupid, too, whether they are or not; though this guy has a knowing gleam in his eye.

An eye pointed at Alaric.

“Mr. Saltzman?”

Alaric blinks. “Do I know you?”

“Freshman American History. My family moved away at the end of the year.” Jackson has his eyes narrowed. “You’re… looking well,” he says.

Shit fuck balls ass cunt fuckety fuck.

“Kind of you to say, Jackson,” Alaric says, and he and Damon excuse themselves. With little fanfare. Alaric starts to veer towards the parlor, but Damon steers him to the door.

“Let’s just go,” Damon says. “Visit casa de Donovan. Go to the Grill. Dog and Pony. Let’s just _go_ ,” he says, and can’t quite hide the thud in his head.

Alaric smiles, a little worry crossing his face, but with Damon’s hand on his hip, he doesn’t argue.

 

**

 

A pile of warm happy humans living on top of one another, as it always is, at the Donovan house. It occurs to Alaric that it’s not a stretch anymore to think of it in this way. It hasn’t been the Gilbert house in years.

It’s a long time since he slept a summer on the couch, a longer time since he kissed Jenna Senior on the front step after dinner and a movie.

Jenna rushes to the door and throws herself at Damon’s knees, trying – hilariously – to bite him. Damon doesn’t bite her back. He lifts her into the air and holds her upside-down by the ankles, instead, and she shrieks, delighted.

It’s a fucking gorgeous sound.

“Ric!” she shouts. “Ric! Help!”

When she calls him ‘Ric’ it makes Alaric’s heart stutter and stop, and start again, although it’s no longer a rare treat. Jenna is two and a half, and has two modes; talking, and asleep. And she loves them both.

Elena is sprawled on the floor, and Matt sits on the couch, marking papers. Alaric can’t help but smile at this. He always preferred to mark papers at least a little drunk. Matt likes to do it with his wife and daughter playing on the floor in front of him.

Damon swings Jenna back and forth a moment, and then pulls her up onto his hip, presenting a cheek. Jenna kisses it, and squirms, and wants Alaric, who takes her.

“You can keep her,” Elena says, by way of greeting. “Really. She’s exhausting.”

Damon sits on the couch. “You guys know Jackson Fell?”

Elena frowns. “He moved away. Years ago.”

“He’s back.”

Elena shrugs, but a Look flashes over her features.

Jenna’s eyes are nearly as dark as Elena’s, though her hair is very blonde. She always wants to play with Damon but she likes to settle against Alaric’s chest, settle her head under his chin, settle her little hand against him. Just settle. She’s so small, so utterly perfect.

How Alaric could have thought, ever, that he could hurt Jenna, is a bit beyond him. “I wanna puppy,” she tells his chest. Alaric presses a kiss into her hair.

 

**

 

The house smells fantastically like garlic and onions and five different spices.

They’re well-matched in this as well. Gourmands both. Damon excels at Italian food generally and Alaric favors curries, middle eastern foods and Asian foods. Though bizarrely somewhere along the line someone taught him to make cheese, of all the ridiculous fucking things, and every now and then he gets bored enough to spend weeks making it.

Alaric, it must be said, makes excellent cheese. Spicy cheddar.

Credence Clearwater Revival is piping through good and loud from the library. It’s nearly dark. This early in the year, it still gets dark so quickly. Alaric is humming tunelessly.

Also, Damon thinks, this kitchen. He loves it. He’ll miss it. Wherever they end up will have to be somewhere with a great kitchen.

Damon shakes his head, and continues to slice the peppers.

Alaric looks up a moment before Damon does, at a knock on the door.

“Is that Liz?” Alaric is frowning, but Damon is already heading out of the kitchen.

Liz is halfway through her second glass of wine before she starts talking about what, exactly, has brought her to their door on an otherwise insignificant Tuesday night.

“Jackson Fell is a problem,” she admits. “And he has a job. At the bank.” She twirls the stem of her wine glass. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Alaric looks unperturbed. Damon wants to punch him.

He rubs a tired hand over his own eyes, instead.

Liz is about to say something else, but Damon silences her with a look.

“It’s lucky you like it hot,” Alaric says, agreeably, as he serves up the curry over piles of fluffy white rice.

It’s much later, and Damon and Alaric are a little drunk, on a huge pile of cushions and blankets in front of the fire. Alaric looks lazy. Relaxed and only half-grinning, and entirely himself.

Some days, it’s like Alaric can hear the cogs turn in Damon’s mind. Damon must be looking at him strangely, because Alaric sighs. “What?”

There are a bunch of ways he can go about this; none will be easy. Alaric hasn’t lived so long in one place since he left his parents’ house for college. He’s going to hate this. Damon is going to hate it too. Fuck, Elena’s going to hate it. No more built-in babysitters.

“We have to leave.” Damon looks away. “We’ve been here too long. That Jackson kid… once he starts asking questions and pointing out that we haven’t changed in ten years things are going to get _very_ uncomfortable. I’ve never stayed in one place this long. Never.”

Alaric leans back. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t look upset enough, either. Denial, Damon supposes. Alaric’s face. Damon can’t look. He’s just so fucking _young_. And yes the timing sucks but what is Damon supposed to do about it? Kid shows up in Mystic with that Van Helsing gleam in his eye and you just know, _know_ , that he’s looking to take up the family’s legacy of brutality towards poor, defenseless vampires. Poor vampires. For a brief moment, Damon considers eating Jackson Fell, but somehow, he suspects the fallout from that might be even less pleasant.

And it’s not even that. It’s just that you can’t stay put for so long, and fuckety-fuck. Damon hates being the adult.

“I suppose I knew this was coming.” Alaric shrugs.

Damon says nothing, but he pulls Alaric closer again. A distraction, that’s what they need for now. Damon can be very distracting.

And then later, lying on the bed, eluded by sleep, Alaric keeps breathing, and Damon splays a hand over his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of Alaric’s lungs.

“Where do you want to go?”

Alaric shakes his head. “No idea. I’m still getting used to the idea of leaving at all.” He entwines his fingers with Damon’s. “Leaving Jenna.”

“We’ll visit.”

“I’m just getting the hang of this, you know?”

Damon feels a flash of irritation he tamps back fast. “You’ll be fine.”

Alaric nods, and lets his eyes settle to closed. “I know.”

 

**

 

Alaric is… not exactly depressed, but he’s unhappy. Brooding in the library, so Damon does the one thing he knows always rouses Alaric from a stupor. He hits the parlor, and plays the piano.

It takes less than five minutes for Alaric to wander in and join him on the bench. He doesn’t speak, he just listens.

“I wouldn’t have picked you for a classical music fan, before,” Damon says. Voice low and toneless. He doesn’t look up.

“I’m not, really. Just like it when you play.” Alaric is silent a long time. “How soon do we have to decide?”

Damon shrugs. “We don’t really have to _decide_. We can hit the road, just wander for a few months. A year. See what appeals.” Pachelbel. Tchaikovsky. Damon flits through eras and symphonies, changing things up a little. “You know, we’re pretty nomadic, mostly,” Damon says, and this is true; he’s never lived anywhere for longer than a couple of years, and even that’s rare. “Vampires. Normal ones, anyway.”

Alaric nods, and yawns, and stretches.

Over the next few days Damon regales him with tales of cities he has lived in, or spent time in. Alaric asks questions. Hits the Internet. Research has always been his refuge.

Elena cries, when they explain. Still she seems to have been anticipating it. “You look younger than me, Damon. I always knew you guys couldn’t stay forever.” Jenna seems distressed, too, and won’t settle, even on Alaric, though she can’t possibly understand what is being said. Alaric holds her close anyway, cards his fingers through her soft hair.

Damon feels his heart clench. It’s a mistake, being close to people like this. Makes this sort of thing that much harder. Jenna squirms in Alaric’s lap, reaching for Damon.

“Da-mon,” she complains.

Of course, it’s not a mistake he could take back. Jenna bites Damon’s neck, and Elena makes a joke that they are never allowed to turn her, because if there was ever a natural born ripper, it’s Jenna.

This is going to suck. Damon smoothes Jenna’s hair down.

The boarding house will remain as is, of course, and Alaric arranges for caretakers. A cleaner and a gardener, just to keep it in good repair. Elena will stick her head in from time to time and anyone who wants to stay there is, as always, welcome to. It hasn’t been empty since it was built. Alaric packs boxes of books he’ll want on hand when they find somewhere to settle. Beyond their clothes, though, almost everything will stay exactly where it is. Mystic will always be home, in a way, and they’ll come back as often as they want or need to, though they’ll have to lie low.

Or maybe they could dye their hair grey?

No.

It’s a totally unremarkable Wednesday when Damon and Alaric pack up Alaric’s truck, lock up the boarding house and head to the Donovan house for a farewell breakfast.

“We’ll fly back for Thanksgiving,” Alaric says, with Jenna on his lap, watching her unzip and re-zip the mouth of a strange stuffed toy she is inordinately fond of. Damon is very, very excited about the thought of battling throngs of people in airports across the United States to be in Mystic in time for Thanksgiving but whatever.

Plenty of time.

 

**

 

Alaric is too quiet, in the car. No doubt there is some ridiculous Residual Human Crap.

“We’re not leaving them forever,” Damon says, and doesn’t actually snap, and is sort of impressed with himself. Still Alaric takes a long moment to respond.

When he does, it’s with a sudden jerk of his head, and manic, glittering eyes; a frantic desire in his eyes that is mostly not about sex or about Damon at all, and a thrilling sort of grin.

Totally inscrutable. And not what Damon expected to see. It actually makes Damon smile, though it’s not a wide smile. It’s a wary smile, and he doesn’t like the shape it makes on his face. He’s still unsure when he can trust this smile and when he can’t. “What?”

“Let’s go to Tennessee.”

This is not a big enough declaration to go with the face. Damon narrows his eyes. “You want to live in fucking _Tennessee_?”

Alaric laughs. “No. Fuck no.” Still the wide smile on his face says something. The tension in his frame, the tiny twitches in his muscles. “How long would it take to get to the forest? We could get there before dark, right?”

The forest? “Half of Tennessee is -” Damon straightens in his seat. “Are you talking about the pack?”

Alaric laughs, and fuck, but it is the most gorgeous sound; a real Alaric-laugh. “Do you remember what it was like?”

Damon does remember. The smells, the sound of a million paws against the firm earth. The way they ran, not in the blurring vampire way, just pushing, pushing hard. Muscles on fire.

“I remember.”

Alaric is still smiling. Eyes on Damon. “Let’s go.”

With a shake of his head, Damon meets Alaric’s eyes, and chuckles, and turns his eyes back to the road. “Fine. But if you get eaten, I…”

Alaric pushes himself halfway across the front seat to press his face into Damon’s neck and suck a dark bruise into his pale flesh, to run a hand across Damon’s chest, to palm over the front of his jeans, and Damon utters a groan, and mentally calculates the distance to the nearest decent rest stop; it’s not for miles and miles so Damon just pulls a good way off the road and they meet in the back seat, like they sometimes do. They strip their clothes away quickly and Damon feels his eyelids swell, heavy. Fuck-me eyes. They fuck like teenagers in the back seat, legs tangled, rocking into each other’s hands and wishing they had more hands. Kissing urgent and deep. Sweating, which always makes Damon laugh. Damon laughing makes Alaric laugh and soon they are clutching at each other, helpless with it, ejaculate cooling on the skin between their bodies and that, of course, is when Damon realizes they haven’t brought anything to clean up with.

Who cares?

“Wolves, huh?” Damon is half-slumped against Alaric. “We could just goad them into a game of poker.”

Alaric pulls him in a little harder. “Nope. I want to go running.”

Cool, whatever.

 

**

 

It’s the best sort of night for this sort of thing. Alaric can’t help but notice that all of his limbs are loose and ready to move and eat up the miles, like they are waiting for it. Alaric feels flushed, cheeks warm. The night air has a chill to it, the earth is damp and green, and thirty-six men and women plus Damon and Alaric are standing in the clearing near the arrangement of trailers and shacks which makes up the bigger encampment. Everything smells lush, and anticipation lights every cell in Alaric’s body. He is getting impatient. Strums his fingers over Damon’s hand, and smiles when Damon squeezes back.

“Thought when I saw you two, Tyler might be on his way.” Mitchell is looking older, now; still vital, strong, still very much the Alpha, ruling the pack with a stern, loving hand, but his hair is graying, and he eyes Damon and Alaric with something like envy, or pity. Perhaps there is always a little of one in the other.

“Just us,” Alaric says, grinning, and perhaps something in the grin tells Mitchell why they are there, because Mitchell gives a soft laugh, and shakes his head. “Well, they’re all used to you now. But given how many of them have lost money to you playing poker, I can’t guarantee they won’t bite.”

Alaric isn’t worried. Feeling oddly affectionate, he pulls Damon close, as the pack begin to undress, beautiful bodies enhanced by moonlight and mood.

“You’re in a good mood, for a homeless guy,” Damon says. Lips against Alaric’s ear.

“’m not homeless,” Alaric answers. Home is, after all, where the vampire is, be it a boarding house or a truck or the middle of a forest in Tennessee; and they’ll find somewhere soon, or they won’t, and home will be a series of hotel rooms and that’s fine too. Alaric lets his hand slip to the hollow in the small of Damon’s back, pressing their bodies closer together.

Damon looks a little incredulous. Perhaps he’s looking for Alaric to snap, become maudlin or eat a rabbit, something. But Alaric is okay. He is. Yes, he misses Mystic already but he also has a new acceptance of who and what he is, and it’s okay.

Alaric places a heavy hand on Damon’s cheek, and guides him for a kiss.

“I think I like this look on you,” Damon murmurs.

Watching the wolves change is always a treat; Alaric turns his focus on them, listens for the slips of muscle and the wrenching of bone, the snaps and snarls. Several of the wolves look over, but they keep their distance.

“Fuck,” Alaric says, shivering; anticipating.

Damon settles his hand into Alaric’s. “You’re batshit insane, Ric.”

“You love it.”

Damon nods. “I do.”

There is no sound that indicates that the wolves will all begin to run; perhaps it’s something in Mitchell’s lupine body language, something no one outside the species could read. They are still, and then they are not, and Alaric pulls on Damon’s hand.

Long legs eating up the earth, and the scent of wolves and dirt and moss. The moon, perhaps three-quarters full, streaming uneven light through less even cloud. The occasional howl. And two vampires, smiling fit to burst, brushing against each other on every pass, blood rushing so they can smell each other. Dark eyes and pale eyes glittering both. All too perfect.

Storm’s passed, for now, Alaric thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilariously, several reviewers commented while I was writing this chapter that Damon and Alaric really can't stay in Mystic Falls for much longer. I actually thought it was a nice was to end this arc of Alaric being miserable with a big change. I promise - next week's chapter is well underway and Alaric is back to being Alaric, though changed by his experiences.
> 
> Thanks to afanoftvd over at FFN for the hilarious suggestion of Damon going on a date with Carol Lockwood. PS I'm with Damon. I think she's hot too.


	12. 2023 - Are you going to San Francisco?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon and Alaric have resettled in San Francisco, when they are visited by an old friend - Elijah. Smut ensues.

Damon stops so suddenly that Alaric bumps into him. Hard. Hard enough so if they weren’t vampires they would have gone down hard. He makes a sound that could be ‘oof’.

This is just. So. Wrong.

Damon’s eyes must be very wide.

“What?” Alaric looks around, and wrinkles his nose. “What’s the matter?”

“Are you serious?”

Alaric looks around, and surely, he sees; but no, he only looks slightly confused, so he doesn’t see enough. Damon takes a deep breath and starts to yell. “This is Haight-Ashbury, Ric. This was once the coolest place in the whole of America. This intersection was the epicenter of the whole counter-culture movement.” He takes a step closer to Alaric and manages not to punch the smile off Alaric’s face. He points a stabby, furious finger in the direction of nothing much at all. “I managed to start an open-air orgy one summer evening right there and when the cops showed up to break us up I compelled them to stand and watch out to make sure no one came at us with baseball bats. And now…”

Damon is going to punch Alaric very, very hard. In the balls. Because Alaric has actually started laughing. “And now?”

The rage subsides from Damon’s frame. “It’s a theme park.”

There are rainbows and flowers and peace signs painted on walls of the buildings for a block radius in every direction. The stores sell long-hair wigs and fluorescent shoelaces. There’s a record store than prides itself on selling nothing released after 1973, which cheers Damon for a moment, until he realizes it doesn’t stock vinyl, only compact discs and download stations.

Damon hates compact discs and download stations.

A shop on the corner sells Indian floral dresses and shirts and tie-dyed t-shirts. Damon tugs on Alaric’s arm, and they step inside. “Look at this,” Damon says, and he’s angry. Really angry. Haight-Ashbury snow globes. He wants to buy them all and smash them all on the sidewalk outside. He gives one a sort of weird shake. Inside is a long-haired man who looks a bit like Jesus is supposed to, playing guitar and flashing a peace sign.

The girl behind the counter has the newest Apple phone and she is frantically tapping away at it. “C’n I help you? Peace, or whatever.” She barely looks up, and wears her sari like a uniform.

“How old are you?” Damon shouts.

“Nineteen?” She still doesn’t look up, but she snaps grape-flavored gum Damon wants to bury her in.

Damon takes a breath, the kind that tends to come out in a long, low stream of expletives, and Alaric pulls on his arm, returning the snow globe to the shelf and dragging Damon out of the shop.

“She was born this millennium, Ric!” Because that is just plain wrong, and Ric might be barely out of diapers himself, but he must understand that is just plain wrong.

“What did you expect, Damon? Summer of love was a long time ago.” Alaric runs a reassuring – no, patronizing hand over Damon’s shoulder, but Damon doesn’t tear Alaric’s arm off and beat the shop-girl to death with it. Mostly because he is too fucking depressed.

Damon mutters. “Would have been better if it was an office district now. Better than this mockery.” He pauses, eyes narrowed, brow dark, to glare at the gaudy display of nostalgia, like a fierce enough look will turn it back into what it was.

“Come on.” Alaric bumps their shoulders together, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Take me somewhere else,” he says, and Damon can’t agree fast enough.

There is one place Damon knows is always fantastic, so after a meal of slightly stoned tourists, he and Alaric return home, to drink bourbon on the roof and read.

 

**

 

It had only been six months on the road and off it, in the end. Hilarious, mostly, and sexually charged, and they fought and always made up naked and frantic. The best sort of fighting. And they stayed in very nice hotels and a few less than nice ones too, which is inevitable, and now they live in San Francisco and Damon Fucking. Loves. His. Life.

San Francisco is best early in the morning and late at night.

Damon sits on the stoop with a cup of coffee in his hand and soon enough, Alaric joins him. They kiss, briefly, before settling their shoulders together. Alaric does this, now, unselfconscious; this isn’t backwoods Virginia, there’s no spectacle in it. So Alaric kisses Damon whenever it occurs to him to do so. A neighbor waves hello, and Damon and Alaric wave back.

Janet. Smoking hot with hair past her ass. Her husband is even hotter.

“Can you guys babysit tonight? Just for long enough for us to manage dinner and a movie?”

It occurs to Damon to protest but Alaric loves to babysit, so he nods. They arrange times. _Hi. We’re the vampires next door. Need a babysitter?_

“You don’t mind?” Alaric asks Damon.

Damon shakes his head. “Just wish the kid wasn’t called Tyler. I keep imagining he’s going to turn into a bundle of wolf-pup and bite me.”

And yeah so maybe there is something kind of cool about being neighbors, about having neighbors, and as long as they don’t get too attached, and can move on in a few years.

Also, San Francisco is fucking awesome.

Damon lived here, on and off, for five years, in the late sixties and early seventies, but (other than the brief stint with Alaric during the great Gay Marriage Road Trip of 2019) it’s been a long time since he’s spent time here. It has changed, but less than he thought it would have.

“We’ll head out, after,” Alaric promises. Damon nods. Live music is one of the best things about San Francisco.

“Hungry?” Damon meets Alaric’s eyes.

“No,” Damon says.

Alaric nods, and finishes his coffee. “I’m gonna head out in a bit.”

So casual about it. So easy.

One of the best moments, on the road, deciding where to live, was when Damon emerged from the shower one morning to find the room empty. He’d been puzzled, but he’d settled in with a book he’d bought the day before, and waited.

Alaric had come back with a small smile on his face, and a familiar scent on his breath. “Where’d you go?”

Typical Alaric. Didn’t want to make a big deal. “Needed to eat,” he said, and crossed to the little kitchenette to pour himself a tumbler of bourbon. Damon had taken a sniff of the air; smelled nothing to suggest Alaric had been wrestling an animal, no musk or fur.

He’d wanted to jump up and down but he didn’t. He’d wanted to throw his arms around Alaric. He’d also wanted to double-check that Alaric hadn’t actually killed whoever he’d fed from. He’d done none of those things, just sat and sat and fought down the thrill that electrified his nerve endings.

Alaric had stood with his back to Damon, in the little hotel-room kitchenette. “Stop looking at me like that,” he’d said.

“You don’t know how I’m looking at you.”

Alaric had snorted. “Sure I don’t.”

“You alright?”

Alaric turned, and sure enough, it was a normal Alaric-grin on his face, nothing scared, or murderous. Just Alaric.

“Yeah,” he said. “No big deal.”

So Damon had gone back to his reading, but later that night, he’d congratulated Alaric on this major bit of progress with his lips and tongue, and squeezed moans from Alaric, kissed him in all the best places until Alaric felt thoroughly congratulated.

And now they live in San Francisco where every kind of everything is heartily encouraged and life is perfect. Alaric rubs circles into Damon’s back. “What do you want to do today?”

Damon narrows his eyes. “I have no idea.” He sits up straighter. “No. I do. I told you I’d show you my old haunts.”

Alaric grins. “Cool,” he says, and takes Damon’s mug inside.

 

**

 

The club is dark, and the band is not quite playing swamp rock but it’s not quite not playing that, either, and because the weather is hot, the bodies are, too, and it leaves the whole scene dripping thick with sexuality and sensuality, couples dancing close, hips ground close together. Around the edges of the room are couches, and propriety has been abandoned, for now; lovers entwine limbs upon them, smiling or not smiling, kissing deeply, touches quickening.

Damon and Alaric sit either side of a couple who are moments from leaving the club together, and really, why not send them off feeling that much better? Besides, the man is big, and strong, taller than Alaric, and has green eyes, which were once a weakness of Damon’s. And the girl has the kind of long hippy hair than Alaric is so fond of, a natural honey-nut blonde, and is miraculously unmarred by makeup, save a soft lip gloss. Damon drinks his fill from the man’s upper arm, because he wants the sensation of that bicep under his lips. Alaric drinks from the girl’s wrist, and laughs when she swoops to kiss his mouth, bites her there, too, eating the moan she lets out as she nestles further into his body.

No one notices. Fucking San Francisco. And it harm none, do as thou wilt. Hot.

They send the couple from the club healed from their injuries and moments from tearing at each other’s clothes, and then they return to watch the band and smell the spectators a while longer.

 

**

 

Parts of San Francisco hadn’t changed at all. The Castro had turned out to be even gayer than it had been, but somewhat tempered by the dominance of young families, now that parental rights were guaranteed; Alaric had made an offhand comment about devoted fathers and compared them to Matt Donovan’s mother, now nearly twelve years absent from his life, and Damon had frowned, because it was true.

“C’mere,” he’d said, nudging Alaric into a camera shop. Hoping the wall of photographs would still be there, scanning the wall when he found that they were. “Look.” Pointing to a photograph crudely but cleverly taken of a gay rights parade in the seventies. Alaric squinted.

“Damon.”

“Yes, Ric?” Damon purred, and grinned.

“You’re not going to try to tell me you were a gay rights activist in the Harvey Milk years,” Alaric says, narrowing his eyes at Damon’s gorgeously shirtless form, imagining, Damon suspects, the cowboy boots Alaric has (correctly) guessed Damon would have been wearing at the time.

Damon had grinned, with one side of his face only. “Well… I marched.”

Alaric let his eyes roam the other photographs. “And?”

Damon rolled his eyes. “Guaranteed to get laid after one of those things. Guaranteed. And I was very anti-chick for a little while, back then. Can’t remember why.”

The camera store was busy though most people seemed to be there for purposes other than buying cameras, and besides, Damon was bored, by then, so he tugged on Alaric’s shirt sleeve and they slipped away, back out onto the street.

 

**

 

There in the club with the too-warm air and the too-rich scent of humans and sex and possibility Damon can still smell Alaric quite separately, smell his blood warming. Knows Alaric’s eyes will be black as pitch, lust thickening his lips.

Damon steps Alaric into a column there close to the edge of the dance floor, pinning him with his body, with his hands, with lips against his throat.

“You know what we haven’t done in ages?” he purrs.

Alaric laughs. “Lots of things. What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s pick up a couple of girls, go make memories,” Damon says, humming up against Alaric’s throat.

Alaric laughs. “No,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Damon’s cock has begun to twitch, and unfurl, the smell of hormones building by increments in Alaric’s bloodstream making him genuinely salivate. “No?”

Alaric pulls lightly on Damon’s belt, edging him towards the bar to order their mutually preferred cocktail; bourbon, a lot of it, in a glass. Served, and glasses in hand, Alaric nestles his face against Damon’s neck, runs an exploratory tongue over the skin there. It’s new each time.

“Not that… this isn’t, y’know… Fuck, Ric…” Damon breathes, and sips at his drink, and presses Alaric against the bar. “Not that I’m in any way dissatisfied with your performance, post-crazy, but why the fuck not? It’s been _ages_.”

“Not tonight,” Alaric laughs again.

He is the same as he ever was and he is profoundly changed, too. He is a vampire. A proper one, now. Not in denial any more; perfectly and wholly himself. Almost never breathes when he is lazing on the couch reading a book, and it doesn’t seem to bother him any more, either.

And Damon loves him, loves him.

“Why?”

Because no question, Alaric is aching for sex; cheeks flushed, cock beginning to stir, though he is resisting that. It’s not about monogamy; Alaric has never cared much for such strictures, and they both enjoy sharing the love, so long as they’re both there. Honesty, he is a big fan of, and piling as many bodies as possible onto a bed at one time is something he has shown he excels at. Still there is something about the _no_ ; it’s not a ‘maybe, let’s see who’s around’ or a ‘no, not sharing you tonight’; it’s a no with something crouched in it.

Alaric sighs, as Damon’s teeth graze his throat. “Why?” Damon asks again. Not to insist. Just to understand.

“Because,” Alaric says, twisting his body just so, and placing the hand not holding the glass against the back of Damon’s neck, leaning to speak directly to Damon’s earlobe; there is something a little showy about the set of his body against Damon’s, the ripple of the muscles in his arms, and Damon’s inner exhibitionist raises a sleepy head to wonder what might be going on. “Because Elijah is watching us from across the room,” Alaric says, “and he looks like he wants to eat us.”

Oh, dear god. One of those things always that was always going to happen, again, eventually, now that Alaric is a vampire; but always set aside for later, in favor of hybrid wars and road trips and Alaric being crazy for a while. Damon turns to look in the of direction Alaric’s gaze, and sure enough, still as stone, yards away, the only still point of the throng, dressed as always in an immaculate suit, though with a neatly fitted t-shirt under the jacket, this time. Hair set perfectly, and with about one-eighth of a smile hooking his features; amused, though.

Elijah always looks amused. His eyes, perhaps.

Damon takes a sideways step to address the bartender. “Two more of these,” he says. “And a very generous pour of your best cognac.”

They find a corner with space for three, or rather, encourage three people to go and dance. Elijah meets them there, accepting the glass, and lowering himself into an armchair. “Gentlemen,” he says.

“Elijah,” Damon answers, as glasses meet and chink in musical agreement. “Nice to see you. What brings you to San Francisco?”

Elijah doesn’t lie. “You,” he says. “I heard you had relocated; a sensible idea, I have to say. Alaric, you seem… well. You seem settled.”

Alaric nods, and chuckles. “Yeah. I’m fine. How’s the family?”

Elijah sighs, and swirls his drink. “Rebekah and Klaus are blessedly quiet, for now. The years will no doubt pass too quickly, but perhaps they will both have learned some manners, by the time I wake them. Kol is thoroughly enjoying London, though I doubt London enjoys him, much. I may have to step in at some point.” He takes another sip. “Mother and Finn have resettled in Madison. Finn speaks excellent English and has begun to speak of seeking his old love. Someone I think you are acquainted with, Damon.”

Damon frowns. “Who’s that?”

“The name she goes by most often is Sage,” Elijah says, carefully.

Damon’s eyes shoot up because really, he should have made the connection, by now; but in a couple of hundred years, every conceivable coincidence does, eventually, happen, so Sage’s Finn and Original Finn being the same person was far from a given.

Alaric shoots Damon a look. “Is that…?”

Damon nods. The look he flashes is supposed to say, ‘I’ll tell you the rest later,’ and he knows Alaric won’t push. Alaric never pushes because they have a thousand years to learn each other and there is no urgency.

Also, enough with the small talk. Damon throws back the remainder of his bourbon. This had, of course, happened once while Alaric was still human, and it had been a strange dance then, too, broken when Alaric had finally made the first move.

He is going to do it now, as well; Damon can see it in the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest, smell it in Alaric’s pheromones, the extra oxygen in his blood. Alaric leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. “What do you say we skip the small talk,” he says, grinning, “and head back to our place?”

 

**

 

The early morning – and it is close to three, Damon notices, passing one of the great clocks – is pleasant, cooler than it was, and there is no rush. They walk for thirty minutes, perhaps, and Damon unlocks the front door. Elijah enters with his hands in his pockets, examining the décor, Alaric bringing up the rear.

“Very nice,” Elijah says, as Alaric wastes no time in freeing him from his jacket. “A more minimalist look than you are both accustomed to. Have you kept the boarding house?” Elijah lets Alaric strip his t-shirt off next and shivers as Alaric scrapes his teeth gently over his shoulder.

“Fuck the boarding house,” Damon says, putting his hand on Elijah’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss, tasting a thousand years on Elijah’s tongue. Elijah tastes lonely, too, doesn’t kiss enough for one so skilled in the art. He puts an arm around Damon’s waist, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper.

Alaric, efficient as ever, has slipped his shoes and shirt off, and seems to be debating, from his facial expression, whether they should make an attempt to move the proceedings upstairs to the bedroom or just pile onto the couch like teenagers.

Elijah turns sex-heavy eyes on Alaric, and pulls him close, molding his lips to Alaric’s, and pulling back a moment; “You are married,” he says, almost as if it is a question, but doesn’t wait for an answer before pulling Alaric’s tongue into his mouth, devouring him. Damon sees blood on Alaric’s chin, and wonders whose blood it is.

Alaric pulls Elijah’s bottom lip with his teeth. “We are,” Alaric says, letting go, and grinning widely. “Sorry you couldn’t make it. The seafood bisque was delicious.”

“Modern relationships confound me,” Elijah says, letting Damon drag him to the couch, strip away his pants, free the erection that must be very nearly physically painful by now. Behind him, Alaric is taking off the rest of his clothing. Damon straddles Elijah on the couch, pulling him close, what Elijah seems to need. Alaric leans to speak into Damon’s ear.

“We should go upstairs,” he murmurs. “Big bed. Remember?”

Problem is Damon isn’t sure he can even walk but he does, and all three make it to the bedroom without anyone pulling anyone else onto the stairs to start early. Once there, Alaric coaxes Elijah down onto him, on the bed, where they hold close and kiss each other’s faces and necks, where Alaric’s fingers bruise Elijah’s back, leave deep scratches in his skin. Scratches that close right away again while Damon watches, undressing completely at last. Alaric meets his eye and smiles; _can you believe we’re doing this again?_

Damon smirks, and shakes his head; _of course, you fucking idiot, I’m surprised it took this long_.

 

**

 

One of Damon’s favorite things about San Francisco is the cafés and bars out near the bay. You can order a pot of mussels cooked in tomato and chili and a basket of sourdough bread, drink ice-cold beer from a stein and watch the boats out on the water. In the right mood, Alaric will link his hand with Damon’s right there on the table, hook Damon’s ankle with his own. Sometimes he asks Damon to tell some story and it had been there, on a perfect day (warm, and a little humid, with a thunderstorm building up and making Damon’s blood rush) with Alaric’s finger tracing patterns on Damon’s wrist that Damon had told Alaric about Sage. Alaric stayed somber, for most of it, as it plugged holes in his own knowledge, about Stefan, about Damon’s guilt. So his big dark eyes had been still and calm and then somehow the pieces had fallen into place.

Alaric had tried not to smile, and to soften the blow, he had tangled his fingers with Damon’s. Still Damon had known what was coming.

“So…” Alaric had started. “You went without sex …”

“Ric. Don’t,” Damon had warned.

“… nearly fifty years?” Alaric had not laughed, but only because of an astonishing degree of self-control.

Damon had grimaced, and looked out over the ocean, and tried to pull his hand away from Alaric’s, but Alaric wouldn’t have it.

“You can barely go a morning without sex.”

Damon shrugged, but couldn’t help smiling. “I went months while you were having your little post-murder breakdown.”

Alaric wasn’t really sensitive about that, any more. He just laughed. “But fifty years? You?”

Damon tried again to pull his hand away, but Alaric pulled it across his body, and kissed Damon’s knuckles. “I’m sorry. But it is _fucking_ funny.”

Damon grinned. “I suppose it’s funny now.”

They had settled back against their chairs, there beneath umbrellas marked with foreign beer brands, and Alaric had kept Damon’s hand clasped. Petty, Damon enjoyed the envious looks of men and women walking past or sitting nearby.

“Wait. You never slept with a guy when you were human?”

Damon shrugged. “Are you that surprised? I died in 1864,” he said, brow furrowed. “There were no rainbow flags. And I was enough of a black sheep, without being branded a sodomite, too. How old were you, first time?”

Alaric had shrugged. “Sixteen,” he’d said, no big deal, and settled his gaze back over the bay, making Damon love him even more, maybe five times as much.

 

**

 

Alaric is crouched between Damon’s thighs, running his hungry lips and heavy tongue over Damon’s cock so gently that Damon is about ready to start giving orders, and then takes Damon whole into his mouth, sucking and licking and moaning. Not gently. Damon fists Alaric’s hair, as Elijah takes gorgeous long moments preparing Alaric, opening him carefully, gently, and then less gently. Elijah watches Damon’s face, and their eyes meet each time Damon opens his, but with one of Alaric’s hands and all of Alaric’s mouth rendering exquisite attentions over Damon’s aching cock, it is hard to focus, even when Elijah lines his hips up with Alaric’s, and begins to enter him.

Damon can decipher, from the changing tensions and occasional moans from Alaric, and from the glittering enthusiasm and dripping want on Elijah’s face, looming above them both, that Elijah is taking his time, torturing Alaric with only an inch or less at a time. But at last he is fully inside Alaric, and begins to thrust, harder and harder, until Alaric can barely focus on the task at hand (and mouth, for all that) and pulls off Damon with a slick, slippery sound. By silent agreement Damon and Elijah manhandle Alaric until he is draped over Damon’s body, his cock tucked neatly and beautifully alongside Damon’s between the hard planes of their stomachs, his kisses incoherent, his smile against Damon’s mouth whole and real and totally, unbelievably, fucking awesome.

When Elijah’s rhythm changes and the tension in his arms shifts Alaric bites into Damon’s shoulder, drawing blood, and Damon groans; doubly, when Elijah starts to come, and the expression on his face twists into slackening ecstasy.

He withdraws from Alaric quickly, and replaces his cock with three fingers, goading Alaric on as Alaric kisses Damon deeper, as Alaric slips a hand between their bodies to bring Damon all the way back to the edge. Damon shifts into the touch immediately. So close, so close, and a moment later, Damon and Alaric come, close together, as Elijah bites hard into Alaric’s upper arm.

As Alaric takes a moment to recover on the bed, Damon and Elijah begin to kiss, slow, deep and hungry. Alaric watches, a satisfied smile on his face, as Damon brings his knees up to close tight over Elijah’s hips.

“I don’t understand it,” Elijah confesses.

“What is there to understand?” Alaric asks, a lazy grin stretched wide over his features. Gorgeously nude and sated for the minute, rolling to drape himself partially against them both.

Elijah shrugs. “If something is mine, I want it to be only mine.” He leans to kiss Damon again, and Damon’s hand snakes towards Alaric’s on the bed covers. Left hands bearing silver wedding bands.

“He is,” they both say at the same time.

Further adventures take place in the over-sized shower Damon had put in especially, and spread out and stretched out in various combinations on the bed until the sun is up, and not just nearly up.

They sleep a while, Damon draped across Alaric’s chest, Elijah’s leg thrown over Alaric’s hip. Even vampires need sleep, and after a night like this, a reasonable amount of it. When Damon wakes (close to lunchtime, he thinks) Alaric has his eyes open, and is staring out the window.

Elijah wakes as well, and yawns, and though he looks unsure as to whether he should, he curls a little closer to Alaric.

“I think I like San Francisco too,” he says, pressing lips to Alaric’s shoulder, and settling back again.

 

**

 

Elijah stays for a memorable week, during which time they merry three leave the house only to eat, or drink, or both, returning always to stretch and test their bodies, push each other to the limit of endurance. “I was right about you,” Elijah says, lying on his stomach with Alaric holding him down by the shoulder, buried in Elijah, setting a ferocious rhythm. “You make an excellent vampire.”

Alaric laughs, and shudders at the feel of Damon’s fingers playing over his spine. He lowers himself to bite into Elijah’s shoulder – he just seems so entitled, one of Damon’s favorite things about Alaric. No sense of hierarchy.

And the day Elijah leaves, they bid him farewell at the door and tell him he’s welcome any time.

“Come and see me in Copper Harbor some time,” Elijah says, neat as a pin, his small suitcase dangling at his side.

“We will,” Damon says, with a hand settled on Alaric’s hip and his chin barely grazing Alaric’s shoulder.

 

**

 

Later the same day, Alaric is stretched out on the couch, a book abandoned open on his chest. Damon dog-ears the page and places it on the carpet by the couch, draping himself over Alaric, tucking his head beneath Alaric’s chin.

“I’m fucked,” he says, as Alaric’s arm comes up to brush gently over his shoulder. “Literally.”

“Hmm,” Alaric agrees.

“This is a fucking great city,” Damon adds.

“Mm-hmm,” Alaric agrees.

They stay like that a long time, just breathing, their hearts beating in sync. As entertaining as the week has been this house is most home with them in it, and only them. Alaric’s fingers quest up into Damon’s hair, and tug gently. Sappier than usual, he presses a kiss to the top of Damon’s head, and Damon lets his eyes close.

“I love you,” Alaric says. He almost never says it first, and it makes Damon smile.

“I know,” Damon answers. “Me too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support on this crazy project, guys! It was time for some smut, I think, though I stayed not-too-graphic this time around.
> 
> A special shout-out this chapter to Ark, who got me mooning over San Francisco and convinced me Damon and Alaric would love it there.
> 
> On July 13th, I publish my ridiculously over-ambitious Isobel fic - 'Head is a jungle, heart is an empty room', Isobel's story from a young girl spending her summers in Mystic Falls to the moment she dies burning in the cemetery in Grove Hill, Virginia. This monstrous thing is somewhere in the region of 70,000 words, and has been incredibly difficult to write (if you're curious about exactly how difficult, check out my LJ post on the subject; http://pleasebekidding.livejournal.com/24893.html).
> 
> As a result I may not get a chapter up next Sunday. *cringe* I promise though, I have some cool stuff coming up - as a teaser, these include a second child for Elena and Matt, vampire trouble in Mystic Falls, and the return of several characters (including one barely alluded to in this fic so far, but who many of you have met before).
> 
> So bear with me and watch out for the Isobel fic. Thanks a million guys!


	13. 2024 - Bar None

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon and Alaric really need to do more with their lives than read, drink, and have loads of sex. Also: Alaric experiences a monster fit of jealousy.

Paperwork. Massive huge piles of paperwork. One significant problem with this whole insane scheme is that they need someone human – someone who has an unbroken resume, and a social security number, and a history of running bars, preferably, to be the signatory on the liquor license application, and frankly, do most of the hiring.

So, roughly half the paperwork is forms to be filled out. The other half is job applications for a bar manager who can fill them out so Damon and Alaric don’t have to.

“Is this crazy?” Alaric turns to Damon, smiling, though he suspects it looks less like a happy smile than one of outright disbelief.

Damon grins, too, and his grin is definitely of the ‘fucking crazy awesome adventure’ type. “Yes.”

“Then why are we doing it?”

“Can I quote you, Ric?” Damon tips his chair back and raises his feet to the table, stretching his body in a long, lean line. “I may have to paraphrase. ‘We should be doing more with our lives blah blah blah than reading and getting drunk and having sex all the time blah blah blah.’ Something like that.”

“I said that? Doesn’t sound like me.” Alaric closes a hand over Damon’s ankle, there on the table.

“Surprised me too. Still. Who cares? It will be a completely fucking awesome bar and if we get bored we’ll sell it. For cash, maybe. I’d love to fuck you on a bed piled high with hundred dollar bills.”

Alaric studies Damon’s face, quicksilver eyes, the grin shaping his features. He looks more than amused.

“Speaking of,” Alaric says, squeezing the ankle in his hand.

Damon pretends to consider, twitching his grin into a smirk. “We should really make a start on those applications.”

“I need my head cleared,” Alaric insists, dragging Damon to his feet, and up the stairs.

It shouldn’t clear Alaric’s head, having Damon above and behind him, inside him, pressing a hot mouth to Alaric’s shoulder – it should make his mind fog over completely – but it does, it always does. The thick, heavy weight of Damon pushing and taking and insisting and Damon’s mouth muttering Alaric’s name, his black hair growing damp with the sweat of lust and exertion. Settles him, makes him feel real. Damon’s strong hand digging into Alaric’s hip, his lips finding Alaric’s jaw, Alaric turning his face so he can kiss Damon’s mouth; too good.

Though it is the middle of the day and there is much to do, they lie together for a long time afterwards. Damon drapes himself half over Alaric’s body with his ear over Alaric’s heart.

“Having second thoughts?”

It takes Alaric a moment to parse this.

“Second thoughts?”

“The bar, idiot.” Damon props himself up so he can see Alaric’s face properly, detect any lie.

Alaric doesn’t lie. “About every five minutes,” he admits.

“No point in doing this if it’s not going to be fun,” Damon says, and his face is quite serious. Alaric thinks for a long moment.

“It’s going to be fun,” he says, and means it.

After a shower, they return to the pile of applications, and begin sorting them in earnest.

See, for a hundred and forty-five years, Damon plotted and schemed and searched for a way to get Katherine out of the crypt. It may not have been a full time job per se but it certainly kept him busy enough, always searching for pieces of the puzzle; and in the twelve years since Alaric turned, there has always been something, hybrid wars, babysitting, weddings, something, something to keep them busy. But San Francisco and their life here is idyllic, simple. Too often they do nothing, for days at a time, but contort each other into impossible positions on their great big bed, go out to feed, read book after book and work their way through the bourbon they purchase by the case. Looking after the investments takes a few hours a week at most and watching the money build up doesn’t provide the satisfaction it once did.

Not exactly how Alaric envisioned his life, or his unlife. Though he’s not sure what he envisioned.

Time to do something new.

Going back to academia was out of the question, as was teaching; partly because explaining a twelve-year gap in his work history would be rough, especially at his apparent age, but also, early mornings and inflexible schedules… no. Forget it.

And then six weeks back Damon and Alaric had been wandering aimlessly down Mission street, just off Sixth, both a little stoned thanks to the weed they had smoked with the street musicians they had fed from that afternoon (Alaric’s mind was clear, though his eyelids were pleasantly heavy, and he couldn’t stop thinking that Damon was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen) when Alaric noticed a For Sale sign over the window of a closed-down bar.

He had stopped quite abruptly, and it had taken Damon a moment to notice.

Why the thought of opening a bar held the intrigue it did Alaric wasn’t sure. But he and Damon had called the agent and demanded that he come down right then and let them look at it. Damon’s expression had been amused, though when they were inside at last and everything was dark, gleaming wood and shiny fittings and potential, he’d seemed excited too.

“Obviously, we’ll have to get a pole installed,” he’d drawled, and Alaric had laughed.

“I don’t think so.”

The kitchen was a good size, too; the thought of a bar with a reputation for good food and good music appealed and they had taken less than two days to talk about it before their ‘investment firm’ had wired payment for the whole amount.

And then suddenly Damon and Alaric owned a bar.

Elena had laughed so hard they thought she might hurt herself. “You two running a bar? You know you’ll have to avoid drinking everything, right? Leave some to the patrons?”

“We’ll be good,” Alaric had promised.

“What are you calling it?”

“Bar None,” Damon had called over Alaric’s shoulder, into the video camera, and at his voice, Jenna had come running, spilling over with news.

Once she was bored it was grown-ups talking again; Alaric, insistent. “You guys will have to fly over for the opening.”

“Make sure it’s during the school holidays,” Elena had warned, before disconnecting the call.

And now they have a pile of job applications a foot thick for a bar manager, and forms to fill out, but it’s happening. It’s really happening.

Fantastic. Terrible idea all round.

 

**

 

“You want beers that’ll bring people back every week,” says Harry, “plus a tap or two for specials. You thought about what sort of a reputation you want?”

Damon and Alaric share a look.

“A good one?” Alaric offers, helpfully, and Harry grins.

“Cocktails, awesome collection of spirits? I mean with a kitchen like that, food’s a given, and I know a couple of chefs I’m gonna make compete for the head chef position.”

Damon scratches his head. “We haven’t given you the job.”

Harry shakes his head, and turns, leaning against the bar; crosses his arms, with a lazy smile. It occurs to Damon that Harry looks rather a lot like Alaric, in many of the ways that count; dark eyes of an indeterminate and seemingly ever-changing color, wide smile. Sandy hair. Harry is tall, built. Damon suspects hairy, too, something about the smell of testosterone on him, maybe. Stubbled jaw and a lazy grace.

He even dresses a bit like Alaric used to.

Alaric is watching Damon watch Harry, with a strange expression on his face.

“You haven’t. But neither of you are exactly dumb. You’ve never done this before, and that would put a lot of the best bar managers in Frisco right off even applying for this job. I have contacts; I’ve held a liquor license before. I’ll want a say in decorating, but you get final word. The last place I managed had one of the highest profit margins in the Bay area. I’m not working right now – I just got back from three months touring gastro-pubs in Europe – so you won’t have to wait for me to quit a job and play out my notice.” He shrugs, and meets their eyes; clear and direct. “And honestly… I like you. You like me. So why the fuck not?”

Damon shrugs. Alaric tugs on his sleeve, and the two of them head out back to the kitchen.

“What do you think?” Damon says. “I think he’s perfect.”

Alaric’s features are dark. “Perfect?”

“Yeah. What?”

Alaric takes several steps forward and pushes Damon against the edge of the counter, settles his hands over Damon’s hips. Leans to kiss him, hard.

“Not that…” Ugh, how is he supposed to concentrate, with Alaric’s mouth on his jaw, with Alaric’s hand snaking around to the small of his back? “Not that I’m averse to christening the kitchen before we open, but he’s out there waiting to hear.”

Alaric leans against Damon, and utters a little moan. Breathing.

There is something new in it. Damon finds himself trying to understand. When Alaric meets his eye again, there is something longing in his look.

“Ric?” Damon’s eyes frown, while his lips smile. Alaric shakes his head.

“Fuck. Okay. Let’s hire him.” Alaric pulls back, but half-clutches at Damon’s wrist as he does; again, there is something odd in the gesture, something Damon can’t quite interpret.

Damon studies Alaric’s face a moment. “Are you alright?”

Alaric shrugs. “Of course I am.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go give him the good news.”

Days later, at Chez Dalaric, the first of two of Harry’s chef friends cooks a meal; risotto as the appetizer, and sure, it’s appetizing, but not as good as Damon’s own; an entrée of baked sole. Tidbits on the side to show off his range, and Harry has selected wines to go with everything. His eyes roam the room.

“How long have you lived here?” he asks Damon.

“Two years,” Alaric says. “So how many staff -”

“One thing at a time, dude,” Harry says, and Alaric bristles. Actually _bristles_. “So, you can see his range. Is this what you want?”

“What’s your other guy do?” Alaric asks. Damon thinks he might actually be gritting his teeth.

“Different, really different. He spent ten years in Spain. Makes the best paella I’ve ever eaten. Fantastic tapas.”

Alaric’s leg bumps Damon’s beneath the table, very deliberately. His foot hooks around Damon’s ankle.

“He can come around and do a showcase Monday. It’s his next day off.”

Turns out Alexander really does make the best paella anyone’s ever eaten. Spanish gastro-pub it is.

The bar staff and wait staff are a combination of college students needing extra cash, and professionals; Harry arranges everything, hiring and police checks, while Damon and Alaric choose bar stools and pick out a PA system. It’s long days and long weeks and Damon and Alaric are frazzled, hungrier than usual, half tempted to feed on the delivery staff and carpenters who wander in and out all day.

Alaric is who-knows-where doing who-knows-what – probably a money thing, he seems to excel at that, and Damon isn’t a fan of money, much, so long as there is plenty of it around. Alex has finalized the menu for the opening party (to which almost everyone Damon and Alaric have ever met is invited) and the eight weeks following, and Harry and Damon are experimenting with cocktails.

Damon has remembered cocktails aren’t all bad, though he bans Harry from decorating with anything but fruit for all eternity. “These fucking little umbrellas, man,” he warns. “And the mermaids? They are out.”

Harry laughs. “Checks dig ’em.”

“The chicks are wrong. Make me a whiskey sour. Haven’t had one of those in ages.”

Damon and Harry sit at the bar sharing a laugh and drinking whiskey sours – Damon with his back to the bar and arms crossed, congratulating himself on the choice of bar stool, and Harry leaning over the bar, pen in hand, still making notes about cocktails and marking wines he wants to try on a printed list. They sit maybe a little closer than they should.

“You and Ric,” Harry says. “Not that it’s any of my business. How long have you…”

Damon shrugs. “Thirteen years?” He curses silently, at Harry’s skeptical expression. “Married for five. What? I’m older than I look.”

“You’d have to be.” Harry’s eyes are bright and curious on Damon’s, and they share some amused, not-quite wicked smile, and that’s when Alaric arrives.

It must be a sight; a casual observer might imagine it is Damon and Alaric, there at the bar, such is the resemblance between Alaric and Harry; perhaps the body language, too, and sure, there’s been flirting. No harm in flirting.

Alaric’s eyes narrow, and widen, and he calls a bright greeting. Harry turns, just in time for Alaric to reach Damon, cup his hands around Damon’s face, and kiss him, hard.

Not just hard. Passionate. They could be alone. Which is definitely odd. Alaric is affectionate enough, in public, certainly no one has mistaken them for friends in a very long time but there is more to this than that.

Alaric holds Damon’s eye for a moment, and then turns to Harry.

“Have to borrow my husband for a minute. If that’s okay with you.” Alaric emphasizes the word ‘husband’ – a word he doesn’t often use – and Harry nods, as Alaric leads Damon away, hands clasped tight together, which also new, in public – not that this is especially public, but yeah, there’s something. Through the kitchen, past the walk-in fridge and freezer, back to the office, which is a total mess right now because it has become a dumping ground for everything they can’t deal with straight away. They haven’t started organizing anything at all back here though Damon did take the time to find a calendar for the wall, naked chicks lounging over classic cars, just to make Alaric laugh, which he did, when he first saw it.

Miss July is hot.

There is something very interesting happening. Damon forgets all about the calendar. Alaric pulls Damon close, lining their hips together, kissing Damon deep, hard, drawing Damon’s tongue into his mouth. One hand reaching up into Damon’s hair, and his eyes wide open.

Damon pulls back, just a notch, not enough to be discouraging.

“What?”

“Missed you,” Alaric says, as he steps Damon backwards into an armchair tucked into the corner. Damon lets himself be manhandled into it, groaning in anticipation as Alaric tugs open his belt, and the fastening of his pants, still kissing hard, though he pauses to find the spot below Damon’s jaw where the pulse is almost visible on the skin, and breathe Damon in; like a sommelier, Damon thinks, as he lets out a stuttering breath and lets his eyes drift closed. “Missed you all fucking day.”

Alaric drops his knees to the ground, eyes black with want and yes and Damon.

There is something so deliciously tawdry about doing this while someone waits for them to get back to the bar, where there are still decisions to be made, where the whiskey sour is slowly warming. Damon thinks this twice; once when Alaric kneads and tugs and strokes and coaxes him erect, and then again when Alaric seals his hot mouth over that very erection, firm and determined, tricky tongue and wicked lips working in perfect concert, complementing beautifully the hands that are manipulating Damon’s hips, driving him deeper into Alaric’s throat.

Whatever is motivating this little interlude – Damon approves.

Something about the strangeness of it has Damon ready all to soon and he tangles his hand in Alaric’s hair, anchoring him in place – as if he’s going anywhere, Jesus Christ, he’s committed to this particular task. Damon bites his lip as he comes, as Alaric starts to swallow him down, groaning, sending fascinating vibrations through the whole of Damon’s lower body and down into his toes as he finally relaxes, satisfied and happy, into the armchair.

Alaric pulls back, giving Damon one last slow stroke and wiping his lip with the back of his hand, as Damon tucks his hands behind his head.

“Thanks,” he says, flippant. “What do I owe you?”

Alaric laughs, and stands, and reaches for a bottle of water on the desk.

Damon tucks himself in and tidies himself up, re-buckling his belt. “You going to tell me what that was about?” He rises to his feet, a little wobbly.

Alaric shrugs, but his face is too still for it to be a real shrug. “Told you. I missed you.” He averts his eyes. “You two got much left to do?”

Okay so maybe it occasionally takes Damon a while to realize what is going on but ultimately, yeah, he does tend to get there in the end. He grins widely, and tucks his hands in his pockets, grinning, until he has Alaric’s eyes again.

“Are you… jealous?”

Alaric snorts. “What could I possibly have to be jealous about? I don’t even like cocktails.”

Damon nods slowly. “Well, I’ll mix you a bourbon and bourbon. We’re nearly done,” he promises, and opens the office door, leading Alaric along behind him.

 

**

 

Not jealous. Not at all. Because Harry is human and will age and has never run with the wolves, or saved Damon from being tortured by a psychotic Original Bitch or travelled across the continent with him making essential repairs to constitutional law.

But when they are bent over catalogues of glassware and turn to catch each other’s eyes for a moment, it doesn’t matter that Alaric knows they are just working together; some great beast roars in his heart, makes him briefly irrational. This is no doubt why he can’t resist putting an arm around Damon’s shoulder, landing a kiss on his temple, as he walks past on his way out the door to a meeting at the bank to arrange automatic funds transfer, or at a linen supply company, or to meet the chef at a catering supply warehouse.

Aforementioned chef, Alexander, Alaric is extremely fond of. Alex seems even-tempered for a chef, though Alaric has no idea what he will be like with fifty orders up and a kitchen full of staff. Alex has hair far greyer than it should be – he’s maybe 40, though Alaric takes a moment, thinking this, to remind himself he’s pushing fifty – and dancing, bright blue eyes. He is a little overweight, as a good cook (Alaric believes) should be (at least, a good cook who is not eternal and unchanging). Means he actually likes food, Alaric thinks.

Alaric is more pleased than he should be that Alex has brought his wife and son with him today; Alistair is six, and full of energy, and swings off Alaric like a monkey, and Alex’s Spanish wife, Greta, is curvy and bubbly with olive skin and thick black hair she clips messily away from her eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she breathes, voice husky, still with a thick Spanish lilt to her voice, and slightly broken English. “We will meet my sister for dinner, and we didn’t want to bring two cars. Some social time before Alex again works his crazy twelve-hour days.” She doesn’t look resentful. The spouse of a chef, Alaric supposes, knows what they are getting into when they marry.

“Not at all,” Alaric says, kissing her cheek, and letting Alistair clamber onto his back.

Cutlery and plates and bowls and really, Alaric doesn’t know or care which is eggshell and which is ivory. They are all white. It only takes an hour and a half – Greta takes Alistair to a nearby park, once the decisions have been made and Alaric only has to arrange for payments and delivery.

Alex and Alaric cross the road to a tiny bar to wait for Greta to return.

“How long have you known Harry?” Alaric asks.

Alex shrugs. “Ten years, I suppose.”

“Good guy?”

Alex snickers. “Worried about your man? Don’t be. Harry’s just a flirt.” Alex sips slowly at a Chilean pinot grigio, and jots down the details in a notebook he always seems to have tucked in his pocket.

And it’s stupid, stupid, because Damon isn’t going anywhere. They are in love. The sex is totally awesome and if it gets dull they bring someone else to bed with them and why for the first time in thirteen years Alaric is feeling these stabs of jealousy he doesn’t know, only that he doesn’t like it.

“Never really thought of it, before, but you look sort of alike.”

Alaric grits his teeth. “Is that right,” he says, and is quite relieved when Alex leaves, off for a nice normal family night with his nice normal family.

On the way home Alaric buys wine, a couple of bottles from a region they visited outside Sacramento late the year before. A loaf of the sourdough rye bread Damon likes from the bakery a few blocks from the house, a plastic tub of freshly made pesto. Olives. A small wheel of camembert. He wishes he had some of his own cheddar left but he hasn’t made it in far too long and won’t get time, now, for a while. Damon isn’t at home, so Alaric takes everything to the roof, which is bathed in the soft orange of the sunset.

Alaric switches on one of the softer lights, and opens a book, and has been there for a while when the door downstairs opens. He grins, until he hears a second voice.

Fucking Harry. Alaric breathes, willing his muscles to relax, and heads downstairs to get an extra glass.

“Hey,” he calls, and his voice is only a little scratchy. “I’ve got a bit of a picnic going on the roof.” He pulls the extra glass from the cupboard, willing himself to smile. Harry seems about to refuse – apparently he is just there to sign something, but for whatever reason, Damon insists.

“Just have a drink. You’ll be out of here before you turn into a pumpkin.” And they head upstairs to the roof, and Alaric is sort of embarrassed, for a second, that he has set out a table, draped cloth over everything so it won’t dry out. That he has lit a couple of candles that flicker attractively in the soft breeze.

It looks ridiculous, like he’s trying too hard, or not trying hard enough, or something.

It occurs to Alaric quite suddenly that he might be a good best friend and a good husband and he might be the most fun Damon has had in bed in his very long life, as Damon has been known to declare, but maybe – possibly – okay, pretty much definitely he sucks at romance.

Shit.

And there’s Harry looking like a very tasty human version of Alaric and fuck but Alaric can even smell him, from here, blood lightly spiced by whatever it is he and Damon shared at lunch – Szechuan beef? – and Alaric’s hand moves suddenly to his own hip, to run over the scar he wears there, a year of bites from back when Alaric was still human.

He can’t help but imagine Damon with his fangs in Harry, in his hip or his throat and oh fuck but why is this happening now?

Alaric turns his head before he can vamp out himself. He reminds himself briefly that he likes humans in general and yes, specifically, he doesn’t mind Harry, except when Harry is within ten feet of Damon or they are laughing over something or speaking quietly together or Harry is darting a quick look across the room at Damon.

Alaric pours wine, and smiles, and tells them about the eggshell colored plates and the heavy cutlery Alex chose. Damon says the electrician did some fucking thing Alaric doesn’t care about as he spreads a thick layer of camembert over a torn chunk of bread, sucking his thumb clean in a way that makes Alaric wish he had camembert on his own thumb, too.

“Fucking gorgeous, Ric,” Damon says, winking across the table.

When Alaric goes to open the second bottle, Harry stands up. “I’m meeting friends,” he says. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. One o’clock the booking agent is coming in to drop off demos and talk bands,” he adds, grinning. Despite the cant of his chin and the way his eyes linger over Damon for an extra-long moment, Alaric doesn’t punch him, simply waves goodbye as Harry opens the door that will lead him back down the stairs.

“Lock the front door behind you,” Alaric calls automatically.

They are quieter a while, then, and Alaric swaps places so he is sharing one side of the table with Damon.

“I fucking love you,” he blurts, and Damon looks up, grinning, but with his eyebrows set in a crazy, frowning line.

“I know.”

“I just mean…” Alaric grimaces, and takes Damon’s hand. “I fucking love you and I don’t say it enough. You know?”

Damon looks surprised, leans in for a kiss. “It’s cool. I love you too. Ric, what’s…” Damon laughs, then, and sits up straighter. “I was right.”

“About what?”

“You’re… You’re fucking jealous.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

Damon nods. “You are. You’re fucking jealous.” Alaric laughs softly, as Damon shifts to straddle the bench and shift a little closer. “Admit it.”

Alaric shakes his head. “Should I be?”

“Yes, you should be. This is… hot.”

“Damon…”

“Seriously. This is an awesome look for you.” Damon reaches for Alaric’s wrist, and Alaric closes his hand over Damon’s wrist. Linked, like one is pulling the other out of an abyss. Alaric collects Damon with his other arm and pulls him closer. Damon looks intrigued.

“Do I take you for granted?”

Damon doesn’t look away, though he pauses for a good long moment to think. “Maybe. We probably both do it.” He releases Alaric’s hand, takes the glass, sips again. “After this long.”

Alaric shakes his head. “We’ve got… It could be hundreds of years, Damon. We can’t get lazy now or we won’t make it.”

The air is cool, and the smell of Thai food is wafting through the air – probably from a restaurant – some delicious combination of ginger, and chili, and lemongrass. When the direction of the air shifts Alaric can hear live music, from a few blocks away.

Damon places his glass back on the table and turns the stem between his fingers. “You’ve never been bothered by me flirting before.”

Alaric splays a big hand over Damon’s thigh. “No.” He shifts a little higher, and thrills to the feeling of Damon’s skin twitching beneath his hand, through his jeans.

“It’s what I do. Flirt.”

“I know.”

Damon is strong, muscular; Alaric plays his fingers over Damon’s stomach, wraps his hand around Damon’s left bicep, grins when Damon flexes a little.

“Does it? Bother you?”

“No.” Alaric shifts so he is straddling the bench as well, hooking hands beneath Damon’s thighs, pulling him until Damon’s legs are hooked over Alaric’s. Damon’s eyes glitter under the soft light, and his breath hitches, heart beating a little faster.

“So this, jealous, possessive, alpha-male posturing…” Damon moans, a little, as Alaric’s fangs pierce his throat, just enough to draw blood. “What do I do to encourage it? I mean… this is…”

Alaric runs his hands up under Damon’s t-shirt, explores the contours of his spine, his lower back. “What?”

“I like it,” Damon says, and Alaric kisses him, deeper and deeper, until Damon makes soft little sounds in his throat that Alaric can’t quite put a name to.

Alaric spends a good couple of hours showing Damon all the ways he doesn’t take him for granted, on the bed, and then in the shower, and they sleep soundly, curled up together like cats until the sun comes up.

 

**

 

For the day of the opening party Damon and Alaric have hired cars to go back and forth from the airport all day, a babysitter for Jenna and Alistair, and a couple of bands. Everyone coming in from out of town is staying at a hotel near the bar. Damon is manic, thrilled, wearing an eight hundred dollar shirt that makes him preen, programming and reprogramming the playlist that will play between musical sets. He has even taken the special precaution of robbing a blood bank, since Stefan and Caroline don’t drink from the source. It almost holds a little novelty; Alaric hasn’t drunk from a bag in almost two years.

He finds, though, that he is not tempted.

Damon has the bar set up. He adjust and re-adjusts the bottles on the shelves, admiring in particular the twenty different bourbons they have stocked. Alaric polishes the wooden fixtures and the dark mahogany benches, with a fine grin on his face.

Damon turns with a smile and a series of crazy eyebrow movements and almost shouts, “we own a _bar_.”

Alaric leans across the counter, and Damon leans too, so their mouths meet there by the shiny taps.

“We do,” he agrees.

Stefan and Caroline arrive first, Caroline shrieking, a rainbow, as she always is; and Stefan looks more relaxed than he has in a long time. There’s a lot of hugging, and Damon mentions quietly that there is bagged blood in the concealed fridge in the office.

The Donovans are next and it is a shock, to see Jenna so big. She’s nearly five years old and it doesn’t seem plausible.

“When are you gonna get her a brother or a sister?” Alaric wants to know.

Elena shrugs, and bites her lip. “We’re trying. It could take a while. We have our name down for an older child, might make things faster, you know? But she’s a handful all by herself.” Apparently she is. She is trying very hard to punch Damon in the face.

“Her hair’s getting darker,” Alaric says. “And it’s so curly.”

“She might end up looking like Elena,” Matt agrees, but he is quickly distracted by the arrival of Tyler and Jeremy.

“They’re getting older,” Caroline says, quietly, by Alaric’s side. He lays an arm across her shoulder and pulls her closer, watching exchanged hugs, watching Jeremy hold his niece, who wrinkles her face at his offered kiss. “Just… they’re getting older.”

“I know.” It is a little weird, no question. A by-product of looking at the same unchanging faces every day. His own, and Damon’s. Still there is a very long time before anyone is _old_ , so, whatever.

By eight the guests have mostly all arrived and Alistair and Jenna have been placated, and are willing to leave, as they have fallen instantly in love and have been running around the bar screaming in delight at the very fact of each other’s existences for the last hour. Matt and Elena look relieved to have the break, as the babysitter arrives to take both children back to the hotel. Elena and Greta share tales of childrearing woes. Matt asks Alaric how to motivate uninterested students and Alaric roars with laughter.

Elena is damn near tipsy, and enjoying the tapas, when she sidles up to Alaric to say, “Your manager is great. But he can’t keep his eyes off Damon.”

It’s true, he can’t, he really can’t. Alaric watches for a while. Impossible to know how aware Damon is of it; Damon is well-used to eyes on him, that’s for sure, and doesn’t seem to be paying attention, or playing up to it. Though since he plainly likes the jealous streak Harry brings out in Alaric, who knows.

Fuck.

By the time the second band starts at ten, the security guys have run out of flyers to hand people for the public opening two nights from now.

Harry is technically working, but not hard; it’s his party too, and he has friends present. Mostly the casual staff are manning the taps. He just has to help make sure everything runs smooth. He jokes with Alaric that tending bar without handling money is a lot more fun and is in the middle of saying that when a keg runs out and he excuses himself to change it.

Alaric follows him.

“I’ll help,” he says, and Harry doesn’t argue; he just lifts the empty keg. Alaric is about to lift a full one and place it in the space left, when Harry laughs.

“They weigh over a hundred pounds, man, you can’t just…” Harry says, and stutters and stops when Alaric easily shifts and slots it into place. “The fuck do you bench, Ric?” he asks.

“No idea,” Alaric says. “Listen.”

He deliberately doesn’t try to meet Harry’s eyes; he’s pissed, and Harry’s been drinking, and it would be far too easy to compel him, by accident.

“Yeah?”

When Alaric looks up, Harry has a strange, nervous look on his face.

“You did an amazing job. Party’s going great. Everyone’s having fun. The opening night is gonna be awesome.”

Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot and suddenly looks a lot younger than thirty-one. “Thanks,” he says.

“Damon isn’t my boyfriend,” Alaric starts. “We’re not _dating_.”

Harry nods.

“We’re married.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, uh…”

“It’s never gonna happen, man. So just stop.”

For a second, Alaric is worried that he has slipped. Compelled him. But Harry looks too nervous to be under compulsion.

“Yeah. Sorry, man. Just… he’s hot, you know, and I’m -”

“Yeah. I know.” Alaric doesn’t smile. “One of the many reasons I married him.”

Harry shakes his head. “I fucked up.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you gonna fire me?”

“Are you gonna stop?” Alaric pushes the tap fitting into place there on the top of the keg and releases the valve. Beer flowing up into the hoses makes a soft, satisfying rushing sound. Alaric shakes his hands, which have been sprayed with a little beer. He still doesn’t have the hang of getting the fitting in place perfectly straight first time. “You’re a good manager. I think we can run a great business together. But I won’t have you treating us like this.” He crosses his arms, standing up again. “It’s disrespectful to me. Flirt all you want. I don’t give a shit. Damon’s a flirt. That doesn’t bother me. But the moon eyes across the room? That stops. The excuses to touch him? There aren’t any.”

“I’m an ass,” Harry says.

Alaric rolls his eyes. “You’re not an ass. You’re just a… horny thirty-something with a hard-on for your boss.”

Harry hesitates.

“You sound… sort of older, sometimes.”

“I’m older than I look.”

It takes a lot for Harry to just suck it up and hold his hand out to Alaric to shake; but he does that, without so much as a tremor, and Alaric has to respect him for it. Alaric nods, and shakes, and decides that’s it. Reaches for a dishcloth to mop up the small pool of beer that has collected around the lip of the keg – this bar will never smell of stale beer, never, if Alaric has anything to do with it – and lets Harry ascend the steps to the trapdoor behind the bar.

Alaric checks the rest of the kegs, and most will be fine for the rest of the night, just everyone loves that Bright Ale – new brewer just outside of San Francisco, and this is over now, so why Alaric is still pissed off, he doesn’t know.

So he breathes a long while, and scratches his head, and the trap door opens.

A pair of familiar black trousers above shiny bespoke Italian-style lace-up shoes descend, slowly, topped by an expensive black shirt and one of the biggest smiles Alaric has ever seen on Damon.

Alaric laughs. “I take it you heard that.”

“Standing directly above you. I think Stefan was impressed.” Damon crosses his arms, too, an unconscious imitation of Alaric. “This might be the best foreplay ever. Tell you the truth, I sort of wish he’d hit on me.”

Alaric grins, and plays along. “I’d have drained him dry and dumped his lifeless body in a trash can, and we’d be down a manager.”

Damon nods slowly. “Hot,” he says, and takes a step forward. “You know I wouldn’t…”

“I do. I know. I just didn’t like it.”

“You could have compelled him.”

“Kinda want to avoid that as much as possible,” Alaric argues, and since Damon is close enough to touch, now, Alaric links his hands behind Damon’s neck, and pulls him closer, kisses him. “At least with the staff. Let’s go,” he says.

 

**

 

There’s catching up in every shape and form over the next day or so and since the bar is under control for the opening and Alaric insists, Damon and Stefan spend an afternoon, sort of bizarrely, doing ‘brotherly’ shit, which seems to mean mooching around in other bars (Damon figures he won’t see the inside of one he doesn’t own, for the next little while) and not talking about much of anything.

Though Stefan mentions Katherine showed up in Seattle, and it makes Damon shudder a little.

“You tell her where I am?”

Stefan shakes his head. “No. No way. When I told her you married Alaric she seemed way too intrigued.” Stefan laughs. “She had that… look,” he admits, and Damon doesn’t meet his eye. “She’s not on the run any more. I guess she has a lot of time on her hands.”

Damon shudders. “Let’s go back to the house,” he says. “Don’t have much time before dinner with the Donovans.”

“There’s time.”

Damon leans back. “What?”

Stefan shakes his head. “Nothing.” Stefan’s casual face sucks. He shouldn’t bother.

“You’re not one for brother bonding. Let’s go.”

“Not yet.” Stefan calls for more drinks. “Let’s just hang out for a while.”

Which is weird, but whatever, and when Stefan has checked his watch for the fiftieth time, he relents, and they return to the house.

Alaric is sitting on the stoop holding a mug of coffee with a good slug of bourbon in it, grinning, when Damon and Stefan arrive.

“What are you smiling about?” Damon asks, meeting Alaric’s lips in a quick kiss.

“Been redecorating,” Alaric says, climbing to his feet. Caroline comes to the door, giddy and excited, and gives Damon a quick hug, before joining Stefan. Why Caroline even gives Damon the time of day he does not know. She forgives so sweetly and easily.

“See you guys at the restaurant,” Alaric calls, and they leave, looking every inch a far-too-young married couple in love.

“If anything’s pink, I’m leaving you,” Damon threatens, but once inside, he shuts right up.

Because Alaric has bought him a piano.

It’s not a grand, it’s an upright – no room for a grand – but it’s a motherfucking piano, and though Damon hasn’t said so, he’s missed having one.

He should say something. He should. He can’t. He turns the tiny key in the lock, and props up the lid, exposing the long red runner resting lightly over the keys. This, he lifts reverently and lets slip onto the coffee table behind him. He pulls the bench back, just a notch, and sits.

Damon is aware he is frowning. He shouldn’t be.

Also he should say thank you or something but he figures Alaric knows.

Damon sometimes goes weeks or months or years, even, without playing the piano, but his fingers settle into position quickly every time as if no time has passed. A few bars of Clair de Lune, a couple of quick arpeggios, the introduction to ‘Icicle’ by Tori Amos.

Alaric puts his hand on Damon’s shoulder.

“You…” Damon starts, switching to a unique arrangement of ‘Hurt’ he’d been messing with when they left Mystic Falls. “You bought me a piano.”

Alaric gives the shoulder a squeeze, and then lets his hand fall away. Damon catches it, turning.

“You bought me a fucking piano. And you made Stefan bore me with stories about Caroline designing a new digital studio for her business so you could get it delivered.”

Alaric nods. “Yeah.”

Damon stands, feeling strangely young and very unsure of himself. They own a house together and a business together but this is the first really _big_ thing Alaric has ever given Damon for himself only and it is so fucking perfect and the keys are so shiny and owning a bar will be stressful as fuck but they’ll sit here in the sitting room after and Alaric will read, and drink bourbon, and Damon will play the piano.

Come to it, this is the first really big thing anyone has bought Damon, ever.

“Thank you,” Damon says, and Alaric grins, nods.

“We should…” Alaric starts, when the standing and looking gets a bit much, and under other circumstances they’d be naked and getting busy right now but there’s not a lot of time before they have to leave, so they kiss, instead, all too briefly, and head upstairs to change into nicer clothes.

At the restaurant everyone else is there first, so Damon says at the top of his lungs; “Ric bought me a fucking piano, how cool is that?”

Because there’s more than one way to say ‘I fucking love you, man, and I don’t tell you enough.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** I've had quite a few people, now, say that they would like to see Damon and Alaric working - this one goes to you!
> 
> And a couple of people have said they feel like Damon loves Alaric more than Alaric loves Damon. This killed me laughing. So much of us is revealed when we write! I, of course, am obsessed with Alaric - and therefore identify most strongly with Damon. Hence, my near-worshipful adoration. So time to turn the tables. Writing Jealous!Ric was fun. Bonus marks to Starzee.
> 
> Also - one of you guys nominated me for the Energize WIP award - thank you! It's amazing to be nominated. At the moment "One hundred years" is one of only three stories nominated in the slash category. Next week I will post details of how people can vote, if they want to! (I will give everyone who votes for me a free glass of bourbon next time they're in San Francisco... just drop by Bar None).


	14. 2025 - Origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are quiet. Damon and Alaric both find themselves remembering the way they started out.

Damon’s favorite place in the world is the roof of his own house. His favorite thing to do up there is drink bourbon with Alaric while they read.

Best imaginable date.

Sensing eyes on him, Damon looks up. Alaric has that half-smile on; he’s thinking. Maybe remembering something.

“What?”

Alaric chuckles. “Have you meet Harry’s new… whatever?”

“Harry has a ‘whatever’?” Damon frowns. “Gareth?”

Alaric shrugs. “Not after last night. Maybe.”

Damon shrugs. He casts his eyes back to the page. “You’re staring at me.”

Alaric nods. “Yep.”

Damon suppresses a smile. “It’s creepy.”

“Let’s go to bed,” Alaric says, and they go.

Some time later, Damon is draped over Alaric’s sweat-slicked body, candles casting fascinating shadows on the wall, the smell of want and need heavy in the air. Alaric teases the small curls that settle against Damon’s neck between his thumb and forefinger. Shifts his hand to curl over Damon’s arm, and then back to the hair.

It’s been a comfortable few months. The bar is running itself, nearly. The staff have been well-selected, their reputation is excellent, and the refrigerator is covered in reviews clipped from newspapers and local magazines. Alexander won the prestigious ‘S.F. Bites’ award for his tapas and got his photograph on the cover of _Foodies_ magazine. They had to give him a hefty pay rise. Worth every cent. The bar is raking in money.

Damon and Alaric drift in and out almost only exactly as often as they need and want to. Alaric likes to help out behind the bar when things are busy and Damon likes to watch him do it, flirting with patrons and strutting around. And afterwards, back at home, Damon plays the piano and Alaric reads or they make love until the sun comes up.

Alaric is quiet.

“What?”

Damon repositions himself to kiss Alaric’s mouth. Alaric has a secret smile, one Damon can’t read.

“I was just thinking about how we started.”

Damon groans, and mouths languidly over Alaric’s jaw, kissing all the way to the spot behind and below his ear that always makes him take a stuttering breath. “Why?”

Alaric shrugs. “Harry, and his… whatever. They’ve been at each other’s throats since the day they met.”

“How romantic,” Damon murmurs, and then he reaches to pinch the candle-flames out one bye one, settling into Alaric’s arms to sleep.

 

**

 

Their first encounter had been sort of charged and inevitable. Heat of the moment, full flush of battle. Too much to drink. Damon still unsure of why Alaric hadn’t shot him with his crossbow when he had the chance. Damon squirming on a bar stool at Alaric’s side in the Grill and barely able to keep his hands to himself.

“You can’t deny,” he had said, “we were Bad. Ass.”

It was shocking and cool when Alaric punched him across the jaw; something about a level of comfort he maybe shouldn’t have had around an unstable vampire type. It had hurt, a bit, for a moment, but Damon had smiled and said to the curious onlookers, “It happens.”

Far more shocking was that Alaric was still standing there when Damon looked up, all pissed-off and turned on. “Are you coming?” he asked, and Damon didn’t even try to suppress his smirk.

The alley behind the Grill; perhaps not the most romantic setting for a first kiss but Damon wasn’t going to risk suggesting they go somewhere else, lest Alaric come to his senses. He’d been gratified to feel the strength in Alaric’s arms when Alaric pressed him against the wall, trapping him with his arms. He’d purred when Alaric’s kisses turned rough, when Alaric sucked Damon’s tongue into his mouth, almost too hard.

So Damon hadn’t been quite sure, before. Only mostly sure. Alaric had a weird sexual vibe. Also he maybe hated Damon as much as he was attracted to him, so there was that. But there was nothing cautious in this. This was raw. Alaric’s stubbled face, his big hands running over Damon’s hips and ass, pulling him closer. Very interesting.

“Now that I’ve saved your life, are you going to apologize for killing me?” he murmured, right up against Damon’s mouth.

Damon shrugged. “If you like,” he said. “Want me to do it on my knees?”

And he’d reversed their positions, because Damon gave a world-class blow job and he was going to make absolutely sure Alaric couldn’t stay standing under his own steam. He’d tugged open Alaric’s belt, and the fastening of his pants, reaching into Alaric’s boxer briefs (score 1 Damon Salvatore, who had correctly guessed the underwear again) and closing a hand over Alaric’s enormous erection (score 2, Damon Salvatore, with a side of smirk).

The pure want on Alaric’s face was intoxicating. His mouth fell open a little in anticipation as Damon leaned back a little, giving Alaric a slow, maddening stroke, studying his face.

So Alaric Saltzman was hot. And? Everyone knew that. But there was something so blown-open about that expression on his face that Damon suddenly, urgently, wanted not just to have him but to _keep_ him.

Damon dropped to his knees, then; this would have been much better executed over a good long stretch of time, on Damon’s enormous bed, maybe with a candle or two, Zeppelin One on the turntable, but since Alaric is likely to come to his senses any second Damon figured he’d have to convince him this was worth doing again. Somewhere that smelled less like restaurant refuse.

Alaric had one hand leaning heavily against the lip of an industrial garbage bin – fuck, tawdry much – and the other fisted into Damon’s hair, anchoring him in place, and he kept making these hot little sounds Damon thought he’d dream about later. Alaric rolled his hips, trying not to fuck Damon’s face – so considerate, trying to ensure Damon could breathe – so Damon cleverly reminded him he didn’t have to, taking the whole of Alaric’s huge dick halfway down his throat, working the muscles in his mouth, his tongue, cupping Alaric’s balls, feeling the fascinating shivers that ripple through Alaric’s abs through Damon’s other hand, snaking under Alaric’s shirt.

Damon started to pull back as Alaric started to come; he wanted Alaric to come in his mouth, wanted to taste him. Wanted to see the look on Alaric’s face as Damon milked him. When Damon cast eyes north, Alaric looked well-fucked, eyes closed, lips open and swollen, pink tongue darting out for just a second and away again, and the hand on the back of Damon’s head was stroking, almost tender.

Damon stood again, tucking Alaric’s spent cock back into his pants, buttoning buttons and zipping flies.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was a dick move. Though, to be fair, you were trying to kill me.” He wiped a stray drip from the lip into his mouth.

Alaric’s eyes were blurred. He looked sort of confused. “Huh?”

It made Damon want to kiss him again, that incoherence. _He’ll be back for more in less than three days_ , Damon thought, and quietly noted the time, and added seventy-two hours. Twelve minutes past ten on Saturday night. At the latest.

“Killing you.”

Alaric had tugged his belt out of Damon’s hands, realizing suddenly he was being dressed. “Uh. Yeah,” he said, re-buckling it. “I have to…”

Alaric pushed back from the wall.

“Ric?”

“I have to go,” he’d said, still looking shaky, and then almost inaudibly, “fuck.”

“What? Why? Come back to the house. For a. You know. Nightcap. Or whatever.” Damon had frowned because, really, that was the blow job of the fucking century, right there, and Alaric was walking away. Fuck, Damon was so hard he was counting down seconds before he tore through his pants like the Incredible Hulk of vampire pornography. A little reciprocation wouldn’t go astray.

“I’ll see you,” Alaric had said, walking away, a little hunched over, not meeting Damon’s eyes.

Damon watched him walk away. Okay so he hadn’t thought they’d trade rings or hold hands but he didn’t think Alaric could walk away so easily after something like…

But fuck, of course, there was still the whole ‘banged your wife, turned her into a vampire’ thing.

It would take more than a blowjob for Alaric to get past that, probably.

Shrugging, Damon had wandered in the direction of the boarding house, keeping his eyes peeled for a snack.

 

**

 

At thirteen minutes past ten on Saturday night, irritated beyond the telling of it, Damon set his face to nonchalant and waltzed into the Grill to find Alaric sitting smiling in a booth with Jenna Sommers. He arched a brow and rolled his eyes and sat at the bar, working his way across the top shelf, straining to listen to Alaric’s conversation.

A little later Alaric left with Jenna but Damon didn’t kill anyone. He just went home to slump across the couch and drink some more.

 

**

 

Monday night there had been a knock on the door, and Damon had opened it slowly, leaning against the doorjamb, wearing a t-shirt just a little too tight, posing so it rode up a touch and revealed about a tantalizing half inch of skin at one hip.

(And in remembering this Damon has to admit to himself that this had not been cleverly planned because he had a strong feeling Alaric might come by. No, basically, Damon had set himself the task of looking as fuckable as possible at all times until Alaric showed up and started cooperating.)

Alaric had noticed the scrap of cool white flesh, and made a face that said ‘really, Damon? Really?’

“Can I help you?” Damon had asked. Voice drawling and lascivious and five kinds of fuck me.

Alaric stood, waiting to be asked inside. Damon stepped back, with a sweeping arm, and Alaric was there, then, inside the boarding house, for the first time since the Blowjob of the Century™ as Damon was now thinking of it.

“Get you a drink?” Damon asked, as Alaric followed him toward the library.

“Sure,” Alaric had answered, sort of quiet and maybe feeling a little bit foolish. Damon couldn’t help but notice Alaric run his eyes over Damon’s arms. As he poured the drinks, Damon flexed as much as possible.

Maybe a little bit much.

“This,” Damon had said, passing the glass, “is one of the best things you’ll ever have in your mouth.”

Alaric had squinted at the total lack of double entendre, but when he tasted the rich honey flavor of the bourbon he refrained from biting back. “Nice,” he said.

They were still standing and Alaric wasn’t trying to get Damon’s clothes off so Damon rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you came for the bourbon.”

Alaric nodded. “I’m out of vervain.”

Liar.

Damon nodded his head. “Totally out, huh?”

Alaric took another sip, avoiding Damon’s eyes. “Yeah.”

Damon took a small step closer, swirling the bourbon in its glass, and caught Alaric’s eye at last. “That was an interesting choice.”

“Choice?”

“You could have come up with any one of fifty painfully transparent reasons to come here tonight. And you chose that.”

“Dude. I’m out of vervain.”

“Which means I can compel you.”

Alaric hesitated. “You wouldn’t -”

“To prove a point? Of course I would. I could compel you to, say, kiss me, and you’d have to either pretend you were compelled, and kiss me, or admit you have vervain inside that silver bracelet you’re wearing.”

“Damon -”

“Ric.” A touch of eye-flare. “Kiss me. Like you mean it.”

Alaric had hesitated, and Damon threw back his head and laughed. Of course then Alaric made that pissed-off face Damon was sort of becoming addicted to over time and shook his head.

“I could punch you instead. That would be great fun.”

Damon shrugged. “It would do for foreplay,” he said. “C’mon, Buffy.”

“I just remembered that I don’t like you,” Alaric said, and started to walk out of the library.

Damon blurred in front of Alaric, stopping him in his tracks.

“You might not like me, but you are definitely attracted to me. I can literally hear all the blood north of your dick rushing south. If you took off that bracelet, I could get in your head, and we could act out whatever filthy fantasy you’ve got going up there.”

“Get out of my way, Damon.”

“Get out of your own way.”

Alaric had closed his hands into fists at his sides, twitching, and then something shifted; his eyes darkened, and he reach for Damon’s neck, pulling him close.

Yeah. That was much better.

Damon let Alaric drive; responded, very enthusiastically, but didn’t push further. Alaric was still far too close to leaving and Damon wasn’t having that.

“Is Stefan here?” Alaric asked, and Damon figured that was as close to a ‘yes’ as he was going to get.

“He and Elena went out. They’ll be back here sometime, I suppose. But I wasn’t going to suggest the library. I have the biggest bed you’ve ever seen,” Damon answered, and then tugged on Alaric’s lower lip with his teeth; even the kissing was stupidly good and right and like they’d been doing it for years, just a rhythm made for them and them only, and Alaric had hold of Damon’s hair like he’d seen it written down somewhere that this particular gesture was one of Damon’s biggest turnons.

So fucking hot and possessive and controlling. Damon couldn’t wait to see what Alaric was like between the sheets.

“Fuck,” Alaric said, like he was mustering up the strength to leave; so Damon settled his hands on Alaric’s hips, stroked down until he was cupping Alaric’s ass in his hands, pulling him closer until there was no denying they were both definitely ‘up’ for this. Damon’s aching cock craved Alaric’s huge hand and there was no way Damon was letting Alaric leave.

“That’s the idea,” Damon murmured. “So. Upstairs?

And Alaric had let himself follow Damon up the stairs and even that got Damon hotter so that by the time Alaric had closed the door, Damon had literally No Choice but to push him against the wall and kiss him even harder, palming at the front of his jeans until Alaric seemed to get weak at the knees.

Alaric pulled his shirt over his head and finally, there he was, hairy chest and strong, defined abs, and nipples Damon wanted to bite.

(Though he thought he might wait and try that in a few weeks. He doubted Alaric would be very keen, right now.)

Damon took off his own shirt then and loved the way Alaric’s eyes went a little rounder. He stepped back to toe his shoes off and Alaric did the same, going straight for his belt right away afterwards (this, Damon had thought, boded very well. As much as he was a big fan of the whole ‘tear each other’s clothes off’ thing it was damnably inefficient and he wanted Alaric’s hands on him as soon as fucking possible).

“What the fuck am I doing?” Alaric wondered aloud and no, Damon wasn’t keen on that line of questioning so as soon as Alaric was naked, erection straining and leaking pre-ejaculate at the tip Damon grabbed Alaric by the hand and dragged him to the bed, pushing him down, climbing over him, gratified by the way Alaric rolled his whole body against the bed.

“This is going to be way too much fun,” Damon said. “You’re never going to want to leave.”

Actually though Alaric looked sort of like he was starting to think with his big brain again, so Damon effectively distracted him by running his thumb over the leaking slit of Alaric’s little brain and kissing him again. This time, effectively focused, Alaric reached and tugged, returned the favor, with exceptional skill and finesse and a glorious moan Damon decided he needed to eat, right away.

“Tell me you’ve got lube,” Alaric said, directly into Damon’s mouth.

“Of course I do,” Damon purred. “Why? You think we’ll need it?”

Alaric’s eyes were so full of want. Fuck, but this was a good idea (score 3, Damon Salvatore).

“In a minute I’m going to fuck you,” Alaric said, voice low and graveled. “And I don’t plan to be gentle about it.”

Damon stopped keeping score right then, and lifted himself off Alaric for just long enough to reach for the nightstand and find the lube. “Don’t need gentle, Ric. Vampire, remember?”

“Trying not to,” Alaric admitted, pulling Damon closer again, wrapping one leg around his body.

“I suppose a snack is out of the question, then,” Damon grumbled.

“Unless you actually want to get staked.” Ooh, bravado! Damon approved.

Alaric was strong. Damon liked that too. Liked the arms, the legs, the richly muscled torso. Vaguely, it occurred to Damon that Alaric would make a great vampire, but that was also a conversation for another day. Instead he pushed Alaric’s head aside, nuzzling hard into the crook of his neck and shoulder, scraping teeth lightly over the skin. At this, Alaric should have freaked, probably, but he moaned instead, and returned to the maddeningly slow stroke he’d established before, speeding up a little as his breathing got heavier and shallower. His tongue darted out to moisten his lip and yeah, Damon wanted that lip more occupied, so he shifted until he was positioned perfectly to stick his dick in Alaric’s mouth.

Alaric took to this task with a great deal of enthusiasm, hands wrangling Damon’s hips while Damon held himself up by half-leaning, half-clutching at the head of the bed.

Although the vast majority of Damon’s brain was letting him things like ‘yes’ and ‘Ric’ and ‘exactly like that’ a small part was thinking that yeah, actually, sexually, they were really fucking compatible. So far. There were Things Damon wanted to do, to try, find out how much Alaric was really up for but he decided to go slowly, for now. Perhaps try a new Thing each time, experiment.

Alaric’s eyelashes were really long, Damon thought, looking down, watching Alaric’s lips move over him, watching Alaric shift his hand to cup Damon’s balls, and that was it, then, officially too much. Damon’s elbows went weak as he came in Alaric’s mouth, thrilling to the feeling of Alaric still sucking, drinking him in, swallowing him down.

When Damon shifted off Alaric it was only reluctantly, but yeah, he really wanted to taste himself on Alaric’s lips, so he kissed him again, tongue questing every corner of Alaric’s mouth. Alaric was breathing hard and sort of shuddering, too, and Damon pressed against him.

It had been way too fucking long since he’d done this. Felt strong arms around him, a hard body under his. Alaric reached for the lube, and Damon grinned, shifting off him.

Alaric spread a generous amount over his fingers and kneeled between Damon’s legs. He paused.

No, no, no. Not stopping now.

“Roll over,” he said. No ‘please’. Damon obeyed, kneeling slightly, fuck, like he was presenting or something, and was shocked a moment when instead of the fingers, he felt Alaric’s mouth, gloriously wet and hot and exploratory over his rim.

Damon became one long moan, and was devastated when the mouth disappeared, but he didn’t care, when it was replaced by two slick fingers to the first knuckle. Jesus Christ. Alaric put such perfect pressure against Damon’s prostate that Damon couldn’t help but push back against him. Alaric responded by pressing further, spread his fingers a little, pressing harder and further until Damon was only saying Alaric’s name, or parts of it, punctuated by the occasional expletive.

Totally maddening.

“Fuck, Ric,” Damon said, and it sounded a little like he was begging. Maybe he was. Alaric chuckled, which was good, and then he lined himself up, nudging against Damon’s rim.

Not good enough.

“Ric. Get in me now or we’re going to have a problem.”

In response, Alaric pressed in, maybe an inch, so there were still, like, a million or so more inches to go, and then out again.

“This is a good look for you,” Alaric muttered, pressing in a little, again.

“Swear to god, Ric…” and then Alaric was fully in Damon, setting a ferocious pace. No, not gentle. Controlling the rhythm by Damon’s hips, as the sweat continued to build. Damon made a series of noises he figured Alaric would tease him about later but right then, Damon didn’t give a shit. Alaric reached beneath Damon’s body and gripped his dick, teasing him all the way hard again, matching the pace of his thrusts.

Damon felt himself fill with a familiar, forgotten warmth, as Alaric started to stutter, let out an almost inhuman growl that made Damon come, too.

“Jesus,” Alaric moaned.

“Damon,” Damon corrected. “Jesus was the guy with the beard.”

Alaric withdrew, and rolled to lie on his back, head against the pillows. Staring at the ceiling.

Damon let himself lie flat, and watched Alaric’s face for a long moment.

“I need a fucking cigarette,” Alaric said, and Damon climbed off the bed, noting the ejaculate starting to drip down the back of his leg. He slipped into the bathroom to wipe off with a towel and wash his hands, and then crossed to the wardrobe.

“I have cigars,” he said, and he and Alaric shared one, the rich smell of chocolate and port filling the room, tangling with the tobacco.

After a while, Alaric didn’t want any more, so Damon put it out and they lay quietly for a long moment. Still nude. Just a pair of naked guys hanging out.

Damon wanted to ask a billion questions. He wanted to know now, right now, when this would happen next. How often. He was about to start streaming nonsense from his mouth when Alaric spoke instead.

“Would have figured you for a top,” he admitted.

Damon shrugged. “I like both,” he said. “Just felt like getting fucked tonight, that’s all. You?”

Alaric shook his head. “Same.” Their eyes met a moment. “You know that’s sort of rare, right?”

Damon wanted to jump on the bed, but instead he shrugged again. He wanted to roll into Alaric’s arms but he didn’t do that either. Hard to guess what Alaric’s response would be and Damon didn’t feel like getting laughed at, aching and satisfied as he was.

Alaric swung his legs off the bed. “Mind if I take a shower?”

“Mind if I watch?”

“Could I stop you?”

Damon smirked. Alaric rinsed off under the shower, that was all, dried himself quickly and knotted the towel around his hips. Disappointingly, he then started collecting his clothing, and putting it on.

“You’re leaving?”

Alaric had been surprised, which was weird, and just nodded. “Of course I am. I have to go home and get drunk and berate myself for being a complete idiot.”

Ouch.

“Okay… correct me if I’m wrong, but that was fucking awesome.”

Alaric sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his socks on. “It was fucking awesome. Not correcting you.”

“Then…”

Alaric met Damon’s eyes. “Do I really have to list all the reasons this was a bad idea and will never happen again?”

“Yes. You do.” Because Damon could only think of one, and it wasn’t even a big one.

“You killed my wife. You… slept with my wife, come to that. You’re a vampire and I’m a hunter.”

Damon spluttered. “Worked fine for Buffy and Angel.”

“You’re a murderer. And you’re in love with a seventeen year old girl whose aunt I’m dating.” Alaric tied his first shoe. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Humans really held a grudge.

“We could just put all that behind us,” Damon reasoned.

Alaric finished tying his shoes, and stood up. His eyes scanned Damon’s body, heavy with regret. “I have to go,” was all he would say. “I’ll see you.”

Good enough for now.

 

**

 

Damon is still stretched out on the bed when Alaric returns from a morning jog.

“You know there is no point in doing that. Our bodies don’t change.” Damon always says this. Reminds Alaric, as if the unchanging face in the mirror wasn’t adequate reminder every day.

“Feels good,” Alaric says as he always says, and leans to kiss Damon briefly.

“Missing the wolves?”

Alaric smiles, and heads for the bathroom to shower. As soon as the sweat is rinsed from his body Damon joins him, and they make out for a while under the hot water, which is nice.

To work, then, because renovations need to be made in the kitchen. The bar is still closed, a couple of waiters setting up for lunch service, a very pissed off looking bartender stocking fridges. In the office, Harry is hunched over the computer.

“Harry,” Alaric said.

“Ric. Damon.” He barely glanced up.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to find a way to take Saturday off so I can go to Gareth’s sisters wedding.”

Alaric started to open a pile of letters. “Thought he didn’t expect you to go?”

“Apparently, if I was really ‘in this’, I would want to.”

Damon flicked eyebrows north, catching Alaric’s eyes and smiling. “We’ll come in. Just make sure Jo’s on.”

Harry turned, surprised. “Thanks,” he said, half-frowning. “I swear to god, though… We fight, we make up… one of us is going to kill the other, one of these days.”

Damon and Alaric couldn’t even look at each other, at that.

 

**

 

It was just the occasional thing; usually after a fight, or too much to drink, Alaric and Damon would find their eyes had met, some kind of fire in it, and it was a bad idea that kept getting worse each time but Alaric couldn’t help himself. Damon’s body was like a drug. His eyes, pale and fierce on Alaric’s, ran a sharp line from Alaric’s brain to his cock, shocking him awake like he’d been sleeping for years.

Just sex, though. Only sex.

Until the night the tomb vampires were burned to death in the basement of the old doctor’s surgery, and Damon nearly died with them: it changed, that night. That was the moment, for Alaric. He’d gone to the boarding house later, maybe two in the morning, and had barely reached the door when Damon opened it for him.

It was strange and new when he didn’t even let Damon shut the door before taking him in his arms. Damon had stiffened, and then relaxed, and the look in his eye when Alaric pulled away to look at him; it was delight, or something, the eyes glittered like they came with their own light source. And then something darker flashed there too.

Damon stepped away and pushed the door closed, and Alaric followed him into the library. Damon poured drinks.

He looked… distressed. Weird for Damon.

“Are you alright?”

Damon had shrugged.

“Caroline…?”

“Gave her some blood. She’ll be fine in a few hours.”

Damon slumped onto the couch, warming the bourbon in his hand. Alaric sat beside him. “You’re not alright,” he said, and Damon frowned.

“Katherine’s back,” he said, and only met Alaric’s eyes for a moment.

Alaric downed the bourbon in one burning mouthful.

“That’s… great,” he said. “I hope…”

“Don’t, Ric…”

“I mean, it’s what you wanted.” Alaric put the glass on the side table and stood up.

“Ric, seriously…”

Alaric waited. But Damon couldn’t look at him.

“Do I have to remind you that _you_ are dating Jenna?”

Alaric hung his head. “We broke up.”

At that, Damon did look up. “What? Why?”

Alaric sighed, seeing Jenna’s sweet smiling face, the tears in her eyes.

(“I’m not an idiot, Ric,” she’d said. “Whatever you have going with Damon Salvatore… I think you’re great, I do, but the way you two look at each other – I’m not going to even try to compete with that,” she admitted.

“It’s not like…”

“It should be,” she had said, and hugged Alaric tight, and kissed him one last time. “Friends? I won’t take no for an answer.”)

“Because she has eyes.” Alaric sighed. “You know where to find me,” he’d added, and left.

Several days later Damon had sidled up to Alaric at the Grill, half-drunk already, and bumped his shoulder, and grabbed at his shirt, and rather than let Alaric try to molest him in front of the whole of Mystic Falls Alaric had bundled the very drunk vampire into his truck and driven him back to the boarding house.

When they got there Damon wouldn’t get out of the truck.

“Seriously, Damon…”

“Seriously, Ric,” Damon had mimicked back. He ran his hand over Alaric’s leg. “Come in and have a drink with me.”

“I think you’ve had enough drinks.”

“I’m a vampire. Alcohol can’t hurt me.”

“Enough of it will still turn you into a complete dick,” Alaric said, brushing Damon’s hand away.

They sat a while longer in the car, Alaric finally switching off the engine. Damon reached for him again. “You should come inside. Fuck some calm into me. Before I do something stupid like throw myself at Elena or kill Jeremy.”

“Just go, Damon,” Alaric said. He felt cold. Reminded himself Damon was a vampire and not a very stable one.

Damon was still looking at him. “Fuck,” he said. “I blew it. Didn’t I?”

There were fifty answers and none. “We couldn’t have… It wouldn’t have worked anyway,” Alaric said, feeling the blood drain from his face. Not a breakup. Not a breakup because they were never together. It was sex, and not even much of that.

Just sex.

Alaric felt so cold.

Damon opened the door and blurred away into the forest before Alaric could shape words to make him stay.

Turned out it was a cry for help. That very day, Damon had thrown himself at both Katherine and Elena, been soundly rebuffed by both, and then in a fit of rage, had indeed killed Jeremy (who had survived, thank to the magic ring). Alaric reacted to this the way he reacted to almost everything; by staying home, in the loft, drinking too much, and trying not to think about it.

They didn’t have sex for months, after that. They drank quietly at the Grill from time to time and went out hunting monsters together but when Damon made that face, Alaric pretended not to notice. He crossed his arms and leaned them against the bar and didn’t look back.

 

**

 

The contractor seems competent.

“We can do more with the space you have. If I move the sinks and the dishwasher to that back wall. Bust through there so the waiters can bring dishes straight through from the corridor and they don’t have to walk into the kitchen.” He gestures, vaguely. “They can pick up plates from there – we can punch through that wall.”

Alexander is enthusiastic; he refers, frequently, to how waiters in the kitchen are a menace and a nuisance and would be happy not to have them walking through so much. Alaric watches him speak some foreign language to the builder, and Damon’s hand brushes over Alaric’s elbow.

Alaric nods. “We’ll pay for the design and quote and take it from there,” he says, and he and Damon leave, because it is a beautiful day, and they don’t want to be indoors.

 

**

 

It was the day after Stefan left that things changed a final time.

He had been grateful, at least, that he couldn’t remember much about being possessed by Klaus, not clearly. Speaking to Isobel, and then a pain in his head, and then knocking on the door to the boarding house with a message he knew he was supposed to deliver. Physically unhurt, his mind a fog, his memory patchy and red around the edges.

Alaric had stayed the night at the Gilberts’, and figured he’d be staying there a while, but he had to do something about his loft. Clean it. But when he pushed the door open, he immediately wished he didn’t have to.

There, that chair, _his_ chair, blood soaked into the upholstery – Katherine sat in that chair and stabbed herself over and over again, in the leg. Alaric had known this like it was something he had been told, not like it was something he saw. Still. The stains spoke volumes.

Less expected was the blood elsewhere in the room. It had leaked out from the corners of mostly drained blood bags, dozens of them. Dripped arcs on the hardwood floor where mostly empty bags were thrown across the room.

Alaric’s heart had hurt just thinking about it.

He had filled a bucket with cold water and soap and pulled rags and scrubbing brushes from under the sink. The rug, a tattered, pretty thing Isobel had bought from a Navajo market and loved couldn’t be saved; Alaric knew it would never come clean, and the stain would remind him, always. He rolled it up and put it in a plastic rubbish bag by the door.

He changed into an old pair of sweatpants and an ancient Duke t-shirt. Kneeled on the floor and began to scrub.

He’d been at it a week or perhaps an hour, and it was already becoming clear that the wooden floorboards would retain some horror (Alaric only hoped his own body bore no similar traces – some imprint of Klaus in his veins, like a disease) when there was a knock on the door.

Alaric took a deep breath.

“Who is it?”

“Who do you think it is? Open up.”

Alaric’s heart turned over, a touch.

(Hours before, Elena had texted him to say Damon was alive and recovering, but he hadn’t quite believed it. Not until he had heard the irritable bark in Damon’s tone, and thank fuck for it.)

Alaric had rinsed his hands, dried them. Opened the door to the loft and stepped outside, pulling it shut behind him against the tale it told.

Damon had taken half a step back.

“You’re alive.”

“Your eyes work. Good to know.” Damon hitched an eyebrow. It wasn’t even real snark. Everything had fallen apart and sometimes the only way to go forward is to get back, a little. Reclaim what was.

“Are you going to let me in?” Damon’s face was not quite Damon’s, bravado aside. He looked a little haunted.

“No.” Alaric had stepped sideways and neatly into Damon’s path. “You don’t… want to…”

Damon had grunted and pushed past, pushed the door open. Pushed his way in the way he did everything.

Alaric had watched as Damon’s eyes took in the pile of empty blood bags. The blood splatter on the walls, on the floor. On the couch. His nostrils flared a second and unerringly he found the place where poor Katherine had sat for so many hours, stabbing herself over and over in the leg.

(Poor Katherine?)

Damon had shaken his head, more slowly than he did most things. No trace of the frenetic energy he usually buzzed with. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Alaric had just leaned against the door jamb.

Damon had taken his jacket off, draped it over a chair, once he was sure it was clean, and rolled his sleeves up, less elegantly than he did most things.

Not himself, quite. Still. Alive, and beautiful.

“Are you alright?” This was not quite what Alaric had meant to say. He meant to say ‘I’m glad you’re alive’ or ‘I’m sorry everything is the most fucked up anything has ever been’ but instead, he just asked. _Are you alright_. Like there was an answer.

The answer had been a brisk nod and a flash of brilliant blue. Damon kneeled where the bucket was and pulled out a wet cloth. Just kneeled there, and began to clean, like the world hadn’t ended. Like he wasn’t wearing expensive slacks and shiny shoes.

“You don’t have to do this, Damon.”

“I know.” Damon did it anyway. They both did it, muttering occasionally about the stains. Quiet. Sombre. Respectful of those they had lost. Jenna, dead and undeclared and buried. Stefan, not just gone, but really _gone_ , high on the taste of human blood. Even John, who had done the right thing, in the end. Sacrificed himself for his daughter.

Isobel.

Alaric couldn’t think about her, yet.

It was testament to how involved they both were in the grizzly work that it had been Elena’s voice, and not the turning of the knob, that alerted them to her presence.

“I… oh, my God,” she said.

Damon leapt up like he’d been shot, rounding her back out the door. There was nothing in this room a girl should ever see, nothing anyone should ever see. Certainly not a girl who had lost so much and still had more to lose.

Alaric had let his eyes drift shut as angry words were exchanged. Elena stormed away, and Damon came back.

“You should go after her. I can do this. It’s my problem, Damon.”

Damon shook his head. “No.”

Alaric shrugged, emptied the bucket and refilled it. When he returned to the slightly clean spot on the floor Damon met his eyes, held them fierce.

“She kissed me. When I was dying.”

Alaric had nodded though the confession hurt like fuck. “And was it everything you’d ever dreamed of?” Sounded a little bitter, perhaps.  Perhaps more bitter than that.

Damon had sat back on his heels and narrowed his eyes. “You two think you have the market cornered, on fucked up. You don’t.”

They had glared at each other for a good long time and Alaric’s arms had ached to reach for Damon but the last three feet between them had seemed like a long way. Wars could be fought in that much space. So Alaric had resumed scrubbing, and Damon did too.

When it was all over Damon and Alaric had gone to the Grill, which had its own gravity, on harder nights. They sat at the bar and drank.

Neither said anything for a long time.

“Come home with me,” Damon had said at last. Quietly, like he thought he could pretend he hadn’t said it, if Alaric said no.

“I can’t.”

Damon had groaned. “Come home with me, Ric. I’ve missed you. It’s been months.”

Alaric had warmed the bourbon in his hand, and shaken his head.

“Why not?”

“I should really leave. I’m staying at the Gilberts’.” He’d started to climb down from his stool and Damon had grabbed his elbow. Irritated.

“Go there after.”

“Let go of me, Damon.”

Damon had let go, and Alaric had left. He’d walked less than half a block when Damon had blurred in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “I want to know why. Why? We were having fun, weren’t we?”

“Sort of the problem.”

“Fun is a problem for you?”

Alaric had shaken his head. “It’s been a long day, Damon.”

And then Damon had actually stamped his foot. “Tell me why. Use little words so I can understand.”

“You’re in love with Elena.”

Damon had rolled his eyes, irritable, rolled his neck a little as well. Gritted his teeth. “Don’t start on…”

“You’re in love with Elena and I’m in love with you.”

Might have been the first time Alaric had ever seen Damon speechless. He’d pushed past Damon, heart in his mouth, and kept walking, another half a block to where he’d parked his truck.

 _I can’t believe I just said that_ , he had thought, over and over. _I can’t believe I just said that_. He had, though, said it just like that, _I’m in love with you._ Alaric hadn’t even been sure it was true, until it had tripped off his tongue like that.

He had slipped quietly into the house, unsurprised to find Elena and Jeremy in the living room, talking quietly. They’d both been crying. Elena looked up hopefully when Alaric came in.

“Are you staying here tonight?”

Alaric had hesitated, and nodded. “If you still want -”

“We do.” Elena had stood up. “I’ll make up Jenna’s bed. You can’t keep sleeping -”

“No, Elena…”

“- on the couch.”

“I can.” He dropped his bag, there by the bookcase. Slumped into an armchair with yet another glass of bourbon.

And then it was three, silent, in the Gilbert living room, mourning. Silent until there was a knock on the door.

Elena had leaped up because she was sure, sure Stefan would return, that it was all some horrible mistake, that he’d be back and everything would go back to normal. But she’d frowned, when it was Damon instead.

“Going to invite me in?”

“You only need one invitation.”

Damon had pushed past. “It’s polite.” His eyes had found Alaric’s quickly. “We need to talk.”

Elena had frowned. “If it’s about Stefan…”

“Not everything is about Stefan, Elena.” Damon had barely looked at her. Just looked at Alaric. “You two should probably leave. Go to bed. Go to your rooms, at least.”

“Why?” Elena had frowned, looking from Damon to Alaric.

Damon had rolled his eyes. “Because I’m about to kiss him. And it would be really weird for you two to stay and watch.”

Jeremy had stood up, hands out, and headed for the stairs. Elena, dumbstruck, had followed him, and he’d said something like “you owe me twenty bucks.”

When they were gone, Damon had crossed his arms. “Were you serious?”

Alaric had taken a breath, trying to decide what to say next. Perhaps that was enough because Damon had nodded.

“No one’s ever been in love with me before.”

“I doubt that.” Alaric hadn’t moved, just stayed sitting where he was. “I can’t do the fuck-buddy thing any more, Damon.”

“We can be more than that.”

Alaric had shaken his head. “You’re -”

“I’m not in love with Elena. I’m not.” And Damon had crossed the room, put his hands on the arms of Alaric’s chair, and leaned to kiss him. “We can be more than fuck buddies. I’ll prove it.” He had kissed a little harder, a little deeper.

Alaric had reached for Damon’s shirt, tugged at it, until Damon was half-straddling him in the armchair.

“We can be everything.”

“Mushy, Salvatore.”

“Fuck you.”

 

**

 

“What do you want to do?” Alaric looks relaxed, lazy, hands loosely tucked in his pockets, mild grin on his face.

“Let’s buy books,” Damon answers, and off they go in the direction of one of the only brick and mortar bookstores left in the city. Freshly encumbered, they head home, stopping at a deli to buy smoked meats and unpasteurized cheeses and a spicy olive oil.

 

**

 

Alaric had kept the loft partly because he needed somewhere to call home but mostly because he and Damon wanted some privacy, some nights. It had gone from a quiet, furtive thing to the thing everyone knew about. Damon liked the word ‘boyfriend’ – thought it had a nice ring to it, or perhaps he liked the way it made Alaric frown.

And sure everything had been shitfully hard and they’d not spoken for weeks after a small misunderstanding had resulted in Damon breaking Alaric’s neck but as the weather had started to warm, Elena’s senior year, they’d established a rhythm, a shared life.

And then one morning Alaric had woken tired – as tired as he’d been when he had gone to bed the night before – and yawned, and stretched, and discovered Damon watching him intently.

It should have been strange but Damon didn’t need a lot of sleep and it was not entirely unusual for Alaric to wake with big silver eyes on him.

“I think I understand Katherine,” he’d said. “After all this time.”

Alaric had rubbed his eyes, yawned. Pulled Damon in for a kiss. “What are you talking about?”

“Katherine. I think I get it.” Damon had run his hand over Alaric’s side. “Time passes so fast.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Why she turned us. Me and Stefan.”

Alaric had held Damon’s eyes, and nodded.

“You’re going to get old.” Damon had frowned. “You’ll get old sooner than you think.”

“This is a bit heavy for a Monday morning.”

“I don’t care. Do you…” Damon had taken a deep breath, let it out. Settled back against the pillows. “Do you ever think about it?”

No point in lying. “I do.”

Damon had frowned. Bitten his lip. He wanted to ask. Alaric sort of wanted him to and sort of didn’t want to deal with it, at six on a Monday morning.

“It’s exam time,” he had said, as Damon kissed his throat. “I’ve got a lot on.”

“I know.”

“I just…”

“You have to understand,” Damon had said, then, shifting to spread himself over Alaric’s body. “I’ve never had this.”

“I know.”

“I don’t…”

“Seriously, Damon…”

“I can’t lose you.”

Alaric had let his eyes close, as Damon licked and kissed his neck. Because, yes. He’d never really had this either.

“After Elena’s graduation.”

Damon had stopped, drawn back. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it. Or if you’re not sure.”

“It’s not something I’d joke about.”

The path had been set, then.

 

**

 

Damon plays the piano while Alaric stretches out on the couch, reading a new book.

“Our life is fucking awesome,” Damon says.

“It is.” Alaric puts the book down. “Come here.” And Damon, ever obliging, crosses to the couch and stretches his body over Alaric’s.

“Quiet year,” Damon says, as Alaric pulls him in for a kiss.

“Jinx,” Alaric answers. “Next year we’ll have a zombie apocalypse, if you don’t shut up. And by the way, we’re award-winning bar owners. It’s not that quiet.”

Everything is as it should be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O HAI.  
> I was nominated for an award! For most promising in-progress slash fic. I did mention this last week but voting has opened now sooooo.....  
> http://www.energizewipawards.blogspot.com.au/  
> Click 'vote here' to get started. You don't have to vote in every category.  
> Next week: for those of you who read a lot of my fic, the name 'Ben' might make you go weak at the knees. I know some days when I'm pissed with Damon I sort of wish Benaric had worked out. Oh well! No. But Ben will be back next week. See you then :D


	15. 2026 - Unrequited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Alaric grew up together, and Ben was always in love with Alaric. Alaric didn’t love him back.  
> Ben is on vacation in San Francisco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who read a lot of my fic, you might know Ben from ‘No one together’ (my SPN/TVD crossover), ‘Head is a jungle, heart is an empty room’ (the unauthorized biography of Isobel Flemming) or various drabbles. He has been referred to obliquely in this fic before as well. He is as real to me as any minor canon character and when I am mad at Damon, I drift into shipping Benaric. Because I am ornery, like that.

Ben Alder likes San Francisco. He decided maybe an hour after arriving in the city.

The weather is perfect. That’s a plus. Everything is green, lush. The streets careen off in crazy directions and the houses are all different, don’t seem to have been designed for harmony, and yet somehow harmony is there, grown organically.

The hotel he is staying in is small, a real jewel, and the guy on the front desk is friendly and handsome and he spent a good twenty minutes marking out on a map the places Ben should visit while he’s here.

“Here for any special reason?” He smiles, and Ben shakes his head.

“Just never been here.”

“Bar across the street and a block west serves great tapas,” the guys says, “if you like that sort of thing. It’s expensive, but it’s worth it. It’s called Bar None.” He marks it on the map along with everything else, with a tiny blue star. Ben thanks him.

Once in his room he unpacks his small case (he doesn’t like wrinkled clothes but he doesn’t like ironing much either) and heads out to wander around for a while before it’s time for dinner.

He sits for a good long while in a sunny park full of families and it’s good, it’s nice, though he feels a pang or two; he is, after all, about to turn fifty, and he has spent the last thirty-five years in love with a man who doesn’t love him back. There will be no children. Not now. He’s too old. When he said this to his sister a couple of years back she’d been angry; “it’s never too late. There are millions of kids in the world with no one to love them. Foster.”

He had shaken his head. “Not something I’d want to do alone.” She’d been angered by that, too.

“Only reason you’re alone is because you hold every guy you meet at arm’s length.”

It was true, so Ben had shut up, and hadn’t spoken a word about it since.

He watches a pair of dads, maybe thirty years old, playing with their daughters, who are shrieking, delighted, and it’s like a sword straight into his heart. They look so happy.

The light is starting to fade. So, dinner.

The bar that was recommended is nice. All gleaming wood and shiny fittings. It smells like saffron and basil and some yeasty dark beer. A young woman with a bright smile and long blonde hair meets him at the door.

“Are you here for dinner, or just a drink?”

“Dinner. On my own tonight.”

She smiles again. “Take a seat wherever you like. I’ll be over soon to talk you through the options.”

So Ben takes a seat in a dark corner and pulls his e-reader out of the small rucksack he has filled with water bottles and a camera and his maps.

An hour or so later Ben decides that the food might actually have ruined him for all other cuisines. He has settled back in the small booth to do some people-watching. He hadn’t seen a pink triangle or rainbow flag on the door but nonetheless the patrons do appear to be mainly gay guys. Which is interesting. He asks the waitress when she brings another tiny plate and another glass of wine.

“Is this a gay bar?” He asks this quietly.

She shrugs. “It’s a gay area. Sort of. Mostly I think it’s just that the owners are a gay couple. They’re popular.” She gives a wink. “It’s a pretty place to work in,” she admits, and Ben decides right away that he likes her a lot. “Are you from out of town?”

“Boston,” Ben answers. He offers his hand. “I’m here twelve days. Ben.”

The girl smiles. “All that and brains too. I’m Isobel.” She shakes his hand and Ben’s heart gives a little stutter. He used to know an Isobel.

“Well, nice to meet you, Ben, and I grew up here. So if you want any advice on things you should do while you’re visiting, just holler.”

She goes away again.

Isobel.

The name brings back a cascade of memories, most bad. Alaric’s wife was Isobel and she had nearly destroyed him, before they were married, and then she had disappeared. Presumed dead. Ben could never begrudge Alaric a thing but privately, quietly, he hated Isobel. He’d been glad when she’d disappeared.

Except that Alaric had followed her so close behind.

Alaric had a promising academic career in American history and he’d disappeared to small-town Mystic Falls to teach history to high school students instead. For a year Ben had prayed he’d give up and come home but when he hadn’t, Ben had visited Mystic Falls. Met Damon, Alaric’s… something.

After that, they had kept in contact by email but that had stuttered and faded.

For years, Ben always thought that one day, Alaric would come back. They’d adopt a puppy or something.

Hadn’t happened.

Ben smiles, and Isobel walks away, and Ben goes back to his book.

 

**

 

There is an amazing museum in San Francisco which describes the history of the GLBT rights movement so richly and with such fervor that Ben signs up as a donor. The man who signs him up is beautiful, and sports a wedding ring, and has a photograph of his son on the wall. “He’s ten years old,” he says, and Ben smiles and nods and hates him, privately.

Ben explores the city, the old neighborhoods and the new ones, and wonders if he could live here. But Harvard makes him happy, weather quite aside.

 

**

 

The third night, Ben returns to Bar None, and this time, he orders the paella. He is well-settled in his booth when he looks up at the opening door at a young couple walking in and his heart stops and starts again.

Because, no.

And besides, he sees Alaric everywhere. A suggestion of Alaric’s terrible hairstyle or the right build. Like ghosts all over the country. Every academic conference, every new bar. He sees Alaric in everyone.

This can only be that, because Alaric is nearly fifty, and the man walking through the door can’t be much older than thirty – a healthy, strong thirty-five at most. Ben has his fork halfway to his mouth.

It is. It’s Alaric. Ben lets his fork clatter to his plate, and half-rises to his feet. It’s awkward because of the table but Ben rises anyway.

Alaric. And Damon.

Holding hands, and that’s… weird, maybe, because Alaric was never a hand-holder, but yes it’s San Francisco, no one bats an eyelid; these days homophobes get offered a free bus ride the fuck out of the city, from what Ben has heard. They offered retroactive marriage certificates to people with records of unofficial marriages, etc, but no, that is Alaric and he Has. Not. Aged. A day.

He and – yes, it’s Damon, also looking what; twenty-five? It makes Ben sick and dizzy and makes him wonder if he should have a medical check up, an MRI, maybe. Perhaps.

Alaric drops Damon’s hand and crosses the bar to a group of guys, shaking hands and sharing a laugh.

It’s…

Because it can’t be Alaric and it is definitely, definitely Alaric. And definitely that is Damon.

 

**

 

“Isobel’s researching vampires.” Alaric had said it as Isobel shook her head, grimacing, gnashing her teeth. “She thinks this small town she spent time in as a kid is riddled with them.”

“Joke all you like,” Isobel had answered, chopping vegetables alongside Alaric.

Alaric had been flippant about it and it had taken Ben weeks to realize why that bothered Isobel so much.

She actually believed.

Her crazy, endless research trips that made Alaric drink heavily and go silent. Her late nights.

Ben and Alaric had been out drinking the night Alaric should have been celebrating his first wedding anniversary (impossible with Isobel out hunting for monsters), when Alaric had said, “I… think…”

Alaric, sad, always made Ben want to close his arms around him but he didn’t do that.

“Come on,” he’d said, instead.

“I think she really _believes_ this stuff.”

Ben had rolled his eyes and poured Alaric another beer from the pitchers accumulating on the table. Alaric had looked scared and lonely. “Tell me it’s impossible.”

“It’s impossible.”

“But…”

“Seriously, Saltzman. It’s not just impossible. It’s biologically ridiculous.”

After a long pause Alaric had nodded his head.

“Of course it is.”

“Your teeth can’t just turn into vampire teeth.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Alaric had paused. “Group hysteria,” he’d said. “Ignore me.”

And then Isobel had vanished and Alaric had, apparently, lost his mind. Taken up boxing and crossbow and shooting and honed his body to something quite new. And quit his job to teach high school history in small town Virginia.

No such thing as vampires.

Alaric hasn’t aged a day.

 

**

 

Alaric punches a guy in the shoulder and shakes hands briefly with the rest of the table while Damon speaks quietly to Isobel. She is smiling and giggly, and Damon grins and flicks her hair behind her shoulder.

Ben steps out from his booth, and stares. And he shouldn’t.

“Saltzman?”

He whispers it, barely. No one could hear. But Alaric looks up, smile on his face, and nods to Ben, and looks away again. Talking to the table. And then he stands up straight as an arrow, looking stricken, and meets Ben’s eyes, blood draining from his face.

(When Isobel disappeared, all that had been left of her was blood splatter in the apartment.)

Alaric takes a step forward, and another, and another, each step quite separate from the previous, until he is standing arm’s reach from Ben. Behind Alaric, still standing at the bar, is Damon, mouth open in shock, searching Ben’s face. Ben can hardly see him. The world has contracted to Ben and Alaric.

“Ben,” Alaric says at last.

Ben can’t answer. His mouth is dry. His throat is dry. He tries to swallow but there is nothing to swallow. If there was an earthquake he wouldn’t notice.

“It’s not possible,” Ben says at last.

Alaric spends long moments staring and staring and then reaches for Ben; wraps his arms around the years they’ve been apart. “Can we talk?” he asks.

Talk?

“I don’t know,” Ben answers. “I don’t know if I can.” He’s not hugging back. Seems frozen in place. Patrons are curious. Everyone is looking. It feels like one of those dreams where you’re at school naked.

“I can explain.”

“I doubt it.”

“Please, Ben,” Alaric says, and Ben realizes he’d forgotten he is actually taller than Alaric; Alaric seems like a giant in Ben’s memory. Alaric pulls away and meets Ben’s eyes again and he is still so beautiful.

Ben supposes he’ll stay that way forever. Damon, too. He wonders how old Damon is; remembers that time fifteen years ago when he met Damon and thought for a moment he was a bit young for Alaric, really, couldn’t have seen a whole lot.

Now he is wondering just how much Damon has seen. The Titanic? The Civil War? The founding of the New World?

“I’ll get a drink,” Alaric says, pulling away. We can talk.”

“Everyone is looking at us.”

“They’ll lose interest in a minute.”

“Will they?”

Alaric studies his toes a moment. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Where? A dark alley, where Alaric can drink his blood and dump his body? Ben should be more afraid than he is. “I want to go to fifteen years ago. Can you do that?” Ben sounds bitter, but okay, he is bitter.

Alaric shakes his head. “I can explain,” he says again.

Damon takes a few cautious steps forward, and holds out his hand. “Ben,” he says. But Ben is distracted by his other hand, the silver band. He takes Alaric’s hand and yes, oh god, matching rings, they’re married, and Ben suddenly can’t. Any of it. Not the vampire part or the married part. No part.

“I have to go,” he says. He can’t even look at Damon. He can barely look at Alaric and he knows with certainty that he is going to cry, soon, and he won’t do it with eyes on him.

Thirty-five years.

“I have to go,” he says again. “I can’t be here.”

“No, Ben…”

Ben lifts his rucksack and moves towards the door and Alaric follows close behind.

“Will you come back? Can I see you? I have to explain…”

Ben doesn’t meet Alaric’s eyes, but he nods, at last. “I’ll come back tomorrow. About three in the afternoon,” he says, thinking it will be quiet at that time.

Alaric’s eyebrows shoot up like he’s won the lottery and he nods. “Three. I’ll see you. Ben…”

But Ben pulls the door open, and strides out, and walks quickly up the street.

 

**

 

Ben wasn’t always the taller of the two; he shot right up around the time he turned sixteen, passed Alaric and the rest of their friends in less than a year. He liked being tall. People treated him like he was older, capable. He liked looking down at Alaric over those last couple of inches.

But at thirteen, he was short and skinny and had braces and adults called him Shadow, because he was always trailing after Alaric. Alaric’s parents generally set him a place at the table. He was always welcome there. Alaric’s parents were weird because they were old but Alaric’s father knew fantastic stuff like how to make a battery out of a potato, how to pull a toaster apart and fix it and put it back together again. You could ask him why rainbows happened and why the ocean is blue and the sky is as well and he’d explain. All the stuff Ben’s own parents said was up to God.

Alaric was the first person Ben told he was gay, and he’d been terrified, terrified, but Alaric had just smiled and nodded.

“I figured.” They were fourteen.

“You’re not mad?”

Alaric shook his head. “I like guys and girls,” he’d said. “I don’t think I’d want to choose one forever.”

When Ben and Alaric were sixteen (and almost exactly the same height for a miraculous month or two) they had managed to procure some weed, and had found a quiet corner of a quiet park to smoke it in one Friday night. Truthfully Ben wasn’t sure Ed and Dianne would have minded if they’d smoked it in Alaric’s backyard – they were kooky like that – but he liked the idea of hiding in a quiet corner of a quiet park and so that’s what they did. They had taken the precaution of rolling a joint before they left the house, unsure they could manage without a table. They’d been giggling before they even got it lit.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Ben had said.

“I can’t believe we haven’t done it before.” Alaric was always up for anything. He’d said once that if he ever thought he was too old to try something new or that something sounded too risky Ben should shoot him in the head, get it all over with.

Alaric had lit the joint the way he’d seen it done in some film, running the lighter over one end until it started to burn, and taken the first puff, and the second, before passing it to Ben. Ben had decided right away that he liked weed; it seemed to settle him a little and make him feel bold, too. He leaned against the fence. Alaric leaned alongside him, their shoulders just touching.

“We’re Juniors,” Ben had said, just to say something. His voice tasted strange and was lower than usual. Alaric had laughed and taken another puff and then laughed again and it made Ben laugh too. “What are we laughing at?”

Alaric had turned with that big smile on his face and said “I have no fucking idea, man,” and Ben had closed the last couple of feet between them. He had reached for Alaric’s face, cupping Alaric’s jaw in his hand, and kissed him.

It wasn’t the first time Ben had kissed someone but it was the first time he’d kissed another guy, and the first time he’d kissed someone he really, really wanted to kiss.

Time seemed to telescope. He was waiting for Alaric to… something. Open his mouth, maybe.

But Alaric had pulled away. Not horrified or unkind or disgusted. Just, the kiss ended, that was all. And Alaric pulled away.

“You’re my best friend, Ben.”

It wasn’t like getting an arrow through the chest, but it wasn’t exactly not like that, either.

“Isn’t your best friend the exact person you should kiss? Isn’t that what they say in the movies? You know, your… boyfriend or your girlfriend or the person you marry, whatever, whoever, should be your best friend?”

“If it didn’t work out this would be all fucked up and I…”

“So you wouldn’t even try?” The giggling was over.

“Ben, I just -”

“We could just try -”

“No.” Alaric shook his head and took another little puff. “We can’t. We really can’t.” He passed the joint back to Ben. “You’ll find someone.”

Ben shrugged. “No. One day, you’ll turn around and you’ll really see me.”

“Don’t put that on me, man…”

Ben had wanted to cry, but not then, and not in front of Alaric. So he had stayed silent, and they’d been best friends and nothing more.

But he’d waited.

College was the best time, and the worst. Once away from their horrible high school and the classmates they’d known for too many years Ben made the wondrous discovery that he was, in the words of his first real boyfriend, ‘hot as fuck’; whether he was with someone or not, he never went home alone if he didn’t want to, and he generally didn’t want to. He and Alaric had a wide circle of sexually adventurous friends.

Ben had a scam he was particularly fond of. He printed business cards from those little booths. They declared him to be a music producer or a veterinarian or something equally impressive-sounding and gave one to whoever he was planning to try to sleep with that night. Everyone knew it was a scam, of course, but it was a cute, well thought out scam, and it often worked.

Once on a whim he got cards printed out that said “Ben Alder. Love of your life.” He threw all but one of them out, and he kept that one in his wallet at all times.

And one night the gang was all at their favorite bar, and Alaric was drunk, because he’d had his heart broken earlier in the week by a pretty theatre major he’d been dating for six months. Ben had bought a pitcher of beer and joined him at a corner table.

“Hey,” he said.

“I’m gonna be a monk,” Alaric slurred back. “Or something. Maybe I’ll give up on women altogether.”

Ben approved of that plan. Not the monk thing. The other part. He pulled out his wallet, retrieved the card and pushed it across the table. Alaric picked it up, and laughed.

“You think this is gonna work better than music producer?”

Ben shrugged. “Got that one made up just for you, Saltzman.”

Alaric put the card on the table, and met Ben’s eyes. “Still?”

Ben’s heart sank.

“I love you, man… I just… You’re my best friend. That’s all there is to it, for me. Always was.” He poured another beer.

Ben felt bad because Alaric felt bad but still he wanted to push, ask questions, why, why, can’t we try, can’t we even just try. He bit all the questions back.

But twelve shots of tequila and a drunken stagger across the campus back to the dorms had a way of loosening everything up and Ben had taken Alaric by the shoulders, drawn him close, and kissed him again.

Alaric had stepped back. “Why would you do that?”

Ben sighed, and rubbed his face, and leaned against a wall. “Because I’m drunk, and an idiot. And a sucker for punishment.”

Alaric crossed his arms. “I need you, man. And I can’t…”

Ben rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Ben…” Alaric sighed. “I’m just… not attracted to you. I mean, you’re hot. Obviously. But you’re my best friend.”

And that was, exactly, like an arrow through the heart.

Ben had always assumed Alaric was just afraid of the relationship changing. If it didn’t work out they’d both be down a best friend. Never occurred to Ben that Alaric might not be attracted to him.

“Fuck.”

“I just… why would you do that?” Alaric was slurring badly. They had both drunk far too much and a desperate, weird corner of Ben’s mind hoped they’d both forget, in the morning. Alaric shook his head, and turned away, and pushed the door to the dorm open, and disappeared inside.

Ben waited a good fifteen minutes before following. He dragged himself into his own room, barely pausing to toe off his shoes, and slept for nearly twelve hours.

He and Alaric hadn’t spoken for nearly a week.

And then Alaric had knocked on his door with a huge smile on his face and a letter in his hand. “I got into Duke for graduate studies.”

Ben had been so grateful for the utter Alaricy-ness of the grin that he’d just grabbed his coat. “Come to the post office?”

“Yes. And then I need some fucking breakfast. Everything fried up in bacon fat. And orange juice. And real coffee. Lots of it.”

At the post office, Ben had found his own letter. They’d hugged, hard, and headed to breakfast, and Ben was so grateful that he hadn’t fucked it up forever that he vowed never to do anything so stupid again.

 

**

 

When three o’clock rolls around Ben pushes open the door to Bar None and hopes the whole thing was some sort of fucking hallucination. But Alaric is behind the bar, and he looks up instantly.

“Get you a beer? Wine?”

Ben looks at the taps. “Beer. You know what I like. I don’t recognize any of these.”

Alaric pours a couple of pints and indicates a corner booth with his chin. Ben meets him there but he can barely meet his eyes.

They are silent for three minutes, maybe an hour.

“You look good,” Alaric says at last.

“Not as good as you.” Ben looks up, and Alaric’s eyes are sad, but they are on Ben. “I can’t believe…”

Alaric waits a good long time before pushing him. “You can’t believe what?”

“It’s true. It’s all true. Isobel and her…”

Alaric nods. “Yeah. All true.”

“She’s a… fuck, I can’t say it.”

“She’s dead.”

“I suppose you are, too.”

Alaric slumps a little, and nods. “Sort of.” He rubs his eyes. “Fuck, Ben, I… Isobel’s dead-dead. She was a vampire for three years.” He wipes the condensation off his glass with the blade of one hand, and speaks in a low whisper. “She killed herself.”

Ben nods. He can’t really think about that and besides, he assumed she was dead from the moment she went missing. “And you…”

Alaric shrugs. “Yeah.”

“For Damon.”

“For me, Ben. And yeah. For us.” And Alaric pushes his hand across the table as if he wants to take Ben’s hand. He doesn’t quite get there. “I’m sorry. But now you know… maybe we can… reconnect?”

“You married him?”

Alaric nods.

“I feel like I just fell into a mirror.” Ben sips slowly at his beer, and finally meets Alaric’s eyes. “I want to see. I’ll never believe it if I don’t.”

Alaric frowns. Looks around the bar. It’s quiet. Alaric shifts in his seat, partially shields his face with one hand. Casual, like.

And his eyes become a frightening red-black, predatory. The capillaries beneath them darken and engorge. Alaric lets his mouth slip open and yes, biologically ridiculous or not, his fangs shift into place with a quiet ‘snick’.

Ben closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Alaric’s human features are settling back.

“I can’t believe you’d do this.” He holds Alaric’s eyes. “After Isobel… and… you’re a… killer?”

“No.” He is quite firm on this point. “We don’t have to kill to feed.”

Ben nods, and Alaric chooses that moment to try to change the subject; “Are you still at Duke?”

“Harvard.” This is easier ground. “Back home, sort of. Eight years, now. How long have you been running a bar?”

And on and on into the afternoon, drinking their way across the beer taps and back, and after a while, it starts to feel almost normal; Alaric is, after all, himself. Profoundly changed in some ways, but not all ways, and when he smiles or laughs it is pure Alaric. Ben talks about his research and Alaric talks about his goddaughter and that feels stranger than almost anything else.

“And they… her parents know what you are?”

Alaric nods, and shrugs. “They wanted godparents who would be able to look after her forever. We’ll outlive them all, if nothing manages to kill us in the meantime.” He drains his glass.

“How old is Damon?”

Alaric drops his voice a touch. “He was born in 1840. He died at twenty-four.”

A hundred and eighty-six years of life. Ben doesn’t think he could stand that.

“We live close. Would you come for dinner?”

He sounds oddly formal, sometimes, but Ben supposes he is trying to show respect for his elders.

Vintage Saltzman.

“You’re not going to eat me and bury me in your back yard?”

Alaric laughs, and shakes his head. “Very small backyard. But we have a rooftop garden. And Damon’s a great cook. Italian food. It would…” Alaric shuffles in his seat. “He’d like to see you, too, you know.”

Damon couldn’t be much more different to Ben. Vaguely, it occurs to Ben that Damon looks a little like Isobel; the coloring, the eyes, the hair, though Isobel was paler.

The thought makes Ben turn his face away, but he nods. “Can’t get much stranger than this.”

 

**

 

The last time Ben kissed Alaric was a few weeks after Isobel disappeared. Alaric had barely been seen by anyone for the past two weeks and was, Ben was quite sure, drinking himself into a coma.

Huddled over coffee, Ben spoke with their closest friends. “Someone has to go over there. It’s not healthy,” he said. “I just don’t know who.”

Linda had shot him a withering look. “Don’t be an ass, Ben.” She tossed her hair. “You have to do it. He’s your best friend.”

“I didn’t even like Isobel. You know that, right?”

“What matters is Alaric _doesn’t_ know that. You’re his best friend. You were best man at his wedding. So put your testicles on and go over there.”

He’d bought Korean barbecue and marched all the way to Alaric and Isobel’s apartment. Alaric had sworn loudly, on the other side of the door, obviously bumping into something – the corner of Isobel’s hideous glass-topped coffee table, probably, Alaric was always bumping his shin against it.

There were empty bottles everywhere and the smell of stale beer and Hungry Man dinners, Chef Boyardee, empty packets lying on the counter. Alaric had papers spread out over the small dining table.

“Not a good time, man…”

Ben shrugged. “Better time than most. You don’t even seem that drunk.”

Alaric’s face bore storm clouds. He collected up the papers and put them into a concertina file, looking resentful of the intrusion. But he ate the barbecue readily enough, with Ben’s eyes on him.

“I’m leaving for a while.” Alaric sounded determined. “She has friends. I’m going to try to track some people down. Someone has to know what happened.”

“There was a lot of blood, Saltzman. I think we both know what happened. You have to start dealing with this.”

“I won’t believe she’s dead until someone shows me a body.”

(Shit. In retrospect, it sounds prescient. Did Alaric know?)

“How long will you be gone for?”

“No idea.”

“You going to call the Dean?”

“I’ll email him. They can fire me. I don’t really care.” Bad time to get fired; neither had tenure, yet, but who was Ben kidding? Alaric didn’t give a shit.

“When will you go?”

Alaric shrugged. “In the morning.”

“Call me.”

“Of course.” Ben could smell the lie, but he chose to believe it. And before opening the door, he put a hand on Alaric’s face and kissed him again.

Third time.

Alaric kissed back. It wasn’t an invitation or a prelude; it was just a kiss, and then Alaric ended it. Ben only hoped he understood what it meant: _You had a life before Isobel and you’ll have one again_.

“I’ll be back,” he promised.

And he had come back. But he’d never been the same.

Ben had loved him anyway.

 

**

 

Alaric opens the door and makes way for Ben to step inside first. It’s a nice place. Ben looks around, paying particular attention to the bookshelves – it’s almost a novelty, these days, people owning a lot of books in paper form, and they all look relatively new – and Damon steps out of the kitchen, a cautious smile on his face.

The food smells wonderful.

Damon and Alaric let their lips meet in a kiss they have performed a million times before, a ‘hello’ or a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘hi, I was just walking past’. Alaric puts his hand on Damon’s hip and Damon puts his hand on Alaric’s arm and it must be nice, to do that, to kiss someone in the way you’ve done it a million times before.

Ben wonders if they ever bite each other. Who tops. And he averts his eyes.

Damon nods, then, friendly, if cautious. “Ben. Good to see you. It’s been… fuck if I know.”

Ben nods too, perhaps a little manic. “You, too. It’s good. You guys. You know. Fuck. I feel so old,” he says before he knows he will say it.

Damon only shrugs. “I fought in the Civil War. You’re not that old.”

They shake hands, and Damon frowns. “You’re not a vegetarian or anything?” He asks like a normal person might ask, ‘you’re not a puppy-murderer?’

“No. Not a vegetarian.”

Ben wants to know what Damon looks like, with his fangs out, but he knows he won’t ask to see. Damon’s fangs in Alaric’s flesh, Alaric’s fangs in Damon’s. He is grateful when Damon turns away.

They share a pleasant meal and it occurs to Ben that it does feel remarkably normal. He is full of questions he can’t bring himself to ask but they talk about normal things, day-to-day things, life in San Francisco. Alaric shows him a wedding photo. He wants to ask about that, too, how could Damon marry when if he even has a birth certificate, it says he was born in 1840. Instead he smiles, and makes a comment about handbinding, far older than any Christian ceremony, and how he wishes he had been there.

Alaric averts his eyes, for a moment, and then looks back at Ben. “We have to be pretty private about… almost everything.”

 _And you own a fucking bar where you know half your customers by name, you prick._ But Ben doesn’t say that. “I want you to know… I’m not going to tell anyone about this.” Ben takes another mouthful of the pasta.

“Thanks, Ben,” Alaric says.

“Not that anyone would believe me.”

And this is true. Ben imagines rushing back to Harvard, popping in to the medical school perhaps. “Vampires exist!” He would say. “I know two of them. I’m sort of in love with one of them, actually, so if you could chop up the other one for experiments, I’d be grateful.”

But he would be admitted to the psychiatric ward, so, no.

“So, Ben. You seeing anyone?” Damon twirls pasta on his fork, flashing expertise, like he’s been doing it for a couple of hundred years; which, of course, he has.

Ben shakes his head. “Not seriously.”

(Truth is, the only reason Ben isn’t seeing anyone (seriously, or not) is that Brian, who he had been seeing somewhat less than casually for over a year went into a rage when Ben mentioned he was holidaying – alone – in San Francisco.

“You’re just dropping this on me now?”

“I’m not dropping anything on you. I’m letting you know.”

“Well that’s very considerate. Why didn’t you ask me to come?”

Ben had found himself making fish-faces, mouth opening and closing. “Brian…”

Brian had shaken his head. “I don’t know what it is, Ben. But you’ve had one foot out of this thing since day one.” He had rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know why. But I am way too old for this.” He had stood up from their lunch table and shaken his head. “I’m done.”

“Brian, wait…”

And Brian, because he was a good man and better than Ben deserved, had turned, with something like hope on his face, and Ben had said “It didn’t even occur to me that you would want to.”

And Brian had scrunched his eyes shut, and shaken his head. “Now I’m definitely done.”)

Damon shrugs. “Pity. You’re hot, for an old man.” His lip twitches into something devilish. Ben decides again that he does like Damon. Just wishes he lived in another country and had never met Alaric.

 

**

 

In the next few days Ben and Alaric spend more time together, visiting parts of the city. Two days before Ben is due to go home Damon joins them for a road trip to Sacramento, the wineries there. After a day spent tasting and buying at three of four of the older cellar doors they stay at a new place. Boutique hotel, gourmet food. The winery is called ‘Fine Fat Hen’ and the semillon sauvignon blanc is so good Ben arranges to have a case sent to his home in Boston.

“I’ve never eaten goose,” Ben says, suspiciously eyeing his plate.

“You should. Think of it as aversion therapy.” Alaric laughs, and turns to Damon. “He’s afraid of geese.”

“No,” Ben says, pointing his fork at Alaric, and then at Damon. “I dislike them. And they dislike me. There’s a mutual dislike thing. They see me, they chase me. All over the world, when geese hatch from their satanic little eggs, they’re shown a photograph of me, so if they ever see me, they chase me.” To his own ears he sounds like he is trying to sound young and fun, and failing, but Alaric chuckles.

Damon looks amused. Damon looks good, amused. “I thought _I_ was paranoid. Geese are. Just chase them and they run away.”

It’s nice. Or it should be. Damon excuses himself, after dinner, and throws Alaric a meaningful look. “See you later,” he says, leaning to kiss Alaric briefly.

Alaric and Ben walk in the gardens. They’re beautiful, artistically lit. For a moment Ben aches. He should be here with someone who loves him back.

“Why are you alone, Ben?”

Alaric sits on a bench, close to a rose hedge, and doesn’t meet Ben’s eyes. Ben sits alongside him. “You know why.”

“I don’t understand. You’re good-looking, you’re funny, you have a good job…”

I gigantic rage-beast roars in Ben’s chest, screaming to get free, but he keeps his voice low. “And I’ve been in love with you for thirty-five years.”

Alaric is quiet a long moment. Time for all the cells in Ben’s body to rearrange themselves, and settle back into place again, the rage-beast shocked into submission. “You shouldn’t have been, man. I… I told you. A long time ago.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“…I just don’t feel the same way. You should have moved on. And we haven’t even seen each other since…”

“When I visited you. in Mystic Falls. Were you already…”

“No. That was just before.” They are silent, until Alaric turns to meet Ben’s eyes again. “You should have got past it.”

Ben shrugs. “Probably. But I didn’t. I thought after Is…” He stands, and starts to pace. “Fuck you, Saltzman. Why wasn’t I good enough for you?”

“Good enough? You were my best friend!”

“I thought once Isobel was gone you’d turn around, one day, and really _see_ me. Instead you lost your fucking mind and fell in love with a… fuck, I can’t even say it. And how many people has he killed?”

The truth of it is on Alaric’s face.

“You chose a two hundred year old serial killer over me.”

“I fell in love. And he’s not like that any more.”

“Oh. Is there such a thing as an ex-serial killer?”

Alaric stands, too. “You don’t understand it. You can’t. Fuck, I thought I did, when I changed, but it was years before I really understood. We’re a different species. Don’t judge him.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. Ben changes tack. “This isn’t about Damon. This is about you and me.”

“There isn’t a you and me, Ben.” Alaric looks angry. “There never has been. Do you understand that? You were my best friend… who… periodically tried to hit on me. You’re nearly fifty. Time to move on.” He shakes his head. “Way past time to move on. I’m fucking married, Ben.”

“And a vampire.”

Alaric nods. “And a vampire.”

Ben rubs his eyes and feels, in his back, in his heart, in his neck, every day of his forty-nine years. Eat well, exercise plenty, do all that, but in the end, you can’t avoid getting old. It happens way too fast. Unless you’re a vampire.

“I need some sleep.”

Alaric nods. “Me too.”

They walk back to their rooms.

 

**

 

Alaric strips down and climbs under the blankets, burrows against Damon’s chest. Damon is sitting up in bed, magnificently nude and lickable, glass of bourbon at his side, book held open in one hand.

“He’s still in love with you, huh?” Damon chuckles. “Sucks to be him.” He runs fingers through Alaric’s hair.

“Fuck. It’s hard to have a lot of sympathy.” Alaric shakes his head, and shifts so he can meet Damon’s eyes. “We haven’t even seen each other in fifteen years. He should have gotten over it.”

Damon chuckles. “I sympathize. I sympathize a lot, which is weird, for me, because I am a dick. But fifteen years? Lightweight. I waited a hundred and forty-five years, remember?”

“Shit.” Alaric rolls onto his back. “Maybe he’s part vampire.”

“He’s not. I mean, hot, sure, but old.”

“He’s not that old.”

“He’s old.” Damon runs a hand over Alaric’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about Isobel.”

“Don’t tell me about it.”

Damon snickers, and then his face is serious again. “She did a couple of things right.”

“Killing herself was probably a good call. But I’ll never forgive her for doing it in front of Elena.”

“Not what I meant.” Damon puts the book down, and Alaric straddles his hips, leaning to kiss and lick Damon’s neck. Damon groans, a little, pulling him closer. “I was thinking about when… ugh, use your teeth, fuck that feels good…”

“Focus.”

“She let you go.”

Alaric sits up.

He remembered, of course; not all at once, but after Isobel died, he started to remember what she had done, setting his heart free. He remembered her pressing him against the wall, there by the lockers, remembered her perfume. “I loved you, I did.” “This was my mistake, and I’m gonna regret it forever.”

“Your heart is free of me.”

He remembered the swell of his heart, thinking she was going to kiss him, wondering if her lips would taste the same as they had. The terrible moment when he realized what she was about to do.

_Your heart is free of me._

Alaric frowns. “You want me to compel him?”

“You have to compel him anyway. To forget what we are. Or sooner or later… actually, fuck, probably sooner, given the state of him, he’s gonna get drunk and tell someone. I’m saying, let him go, while you’re… in there.”

This is the obvious answer. Alaric avoids compulsion, for the most part; it feels irresponsible, when it’s so easy. But he shakes his head. “Ben’s my best friend, Damon…”

Damon frowns. “No, he’s not. He _was_. I’m your best friend now. He’s the guy you grew up with and like it or not, you’re holding him back.” He takes Alaric’s hand, gives a squeeze. “Unless you like knowing there’s someone somewhere in the world mooning over you.”

“No.” Alaric is pretty sure this is true. “I want him to get on with his life.”

“Then tomorrow, before you put him on that plane, you do the right thing.”

Alaric tenses, thinking. “Jesus Christ, Salvatore. Do you know how adult you sound?”

“Fuck you,” Damon says, agreeably enough, drawing Alaric close again.

 

**

 

Breakfast is a little tense, but Ben seems to have recovered from the night before; high emotions and too much to drink, it wears off eventually. Damon and Alaric load the back of the truck up with cases of wine and Ben double and triple checks he has everything packed.

Watching the scenery out the window, Ben says “I think I’ll spend a bit more time here.”

Alaric nods. “That would be great.”

Another long silence. “I’ll come back next summer, spend a few weeks.”

“There’s a lot of day trips, weekends away, not far out. It’ll be great.” Alaric feels the acid of pre-emptive guilt sear his stomach.

Damon excuses himself to peruse a book store in the airport while Alaric and Ben have one last cup of coffee together.

And yeah, if he’s honest, brutally honest, there was a time when it was nice knowing that Ben was there, waiting in the wings; but Ben is running out of chances to grab life by both testicles and suck. And no, they won’t see each other again after today, probably.

Alaric wants to drink Ben in, imprint him into his pores. He memorizes the lines on Ben’s face, the color of his eyes.

“Listen,” he says, and Ben’s eyes go wide and flat. It aches, to do this to someone treasured and true. “You saw me, and I was older, and just me. There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“No such thing,” Ben agrees. Alaric takes his hand.

“You don’t love me any more. And you don’t really care if you never see me again.”

“I don’t care.” Ben nods.

Jesus, this hurts. “Your heart is free of me.”

Isobel’s words. Not Alaric’s. Somehow they are perfect. Ben nods, looking wistful, and Alaric breaks eye contact.

Ben looks up at the television screen. “My flight’s been called.” He stands, lifting his e-reader and wallet, and Alaric stands as well. “It’s been a great couple of weeks, Ric.”

 _Ric_. Alaric can count on one hand how many times Ben has called him that.

He reaches one hand out to shake, and Alaric does that, he shakes Ben’s hand. Alaric sees no trace of the love that was there, moments before, on his face; Ben is changed utterly. Looks exactly like someone who just spent two weeks seeing an old friend.

Damon arrives, just then, with a new book under his arm.

“Nice seeing you again, Ben,” he says, and shakes Ben’s hand as well. Ben grins and it’s a good old-fashioned Ben grin, with a half-curled lip. “Say hello to Harvard for me.”

“I will. You two take care.” And then he is gone, heading for the escalator up to security screening. He doesn’t look back. Not once.

“Harvard is great,” Damon says. “The sciencey girls are less stitched-up than they seem.” Alaric watches until Ben is out of sight, and when he’s gone, Damon snakes a hand over Alaric’s hip. “Sooo… you okay?” He’s not making a big deal. It is a big deal. Alaric is grateful for the downplaying.

“Yeah. Course. Sort of wish I’d done that fifteen years ago, to tell you the truth.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Damon steers Alaric in the direction of the doors. “Let’s get drunk on the roof.”

“Romantic.”

“Fine. Let’s have sex on the roof.”

“Remind me why I married you?”

Damon frowns. “Who wouldn’t want to marry me?”

And then home, where they belong.

 

**

 

Ben does laundry, sorts his mail. Waters his plants, almost surprised they are still alive, as a green thumb he is not, and they have been neglected for two weeks. He sits on his favorite armchair for a long time.

Lonely.

He flicks through the contacts in his phone, thumb hesitating over Brian’s name.

Later that night he is sitting in his favorite restaurant, waiting. Slowly shredding a napkin between his fingers and wondering if this wasn’t a colossal mistake.

Brian doesn’t look happy, but he sits. Ben realizes he never really noticed, before, just how attractive Brian is; big dark eyes and ruddy skin, red lips. Brian nods. “Did you have a good time?”

“The way you say that makes me think you hope it rained for two weeks and I got eaten by cannibalistic pirates.”

Brian shrugs. “It’s a port city. Not out of the question.”

“It was good. Caught up with a friend I didn’t even know was living there. He and his husband run a bar.”

Brian nods, pouring a glass of wine. “Sounds great. Why am I here?”

Ben takes a deep breath. “Because you were right. I should have asked you to come with me.” Ben slumps forward a little. “I should have. I don’t know why I didn’t.” Brian holds his eyes, expectant. “My friend… Ric. He’s been with Damon fifteen years. They’re… happy, and they have this fantastic life together, and I realized I’ve been standing in place for so many years… I’ve never been with anyone longer than a year, because, like you said, I always have one foot out the door.”

Brian’s expression softens.

“I should have asked you to come. I’m sorry I didn’t. And… if you want to…” Ben reaches across the table, hoping Brian will take his hand, but Brian isn’t ready to. “I’d like to try again.”

Brian swirls the wine in the glass. “Both feet?”

“Both feet. Fuck, Brian. I’ll clear out a drawer for you, first thing tomorrow. I’ll buy you a toothbrush.”

Brian tries to suppress a smile, but it makes his eyes sparkle. “A toothbrush.”

“A fancy one. The most expensive one I can find.”

“Well, I’m getting you a cheap, nasty one.”

“I can live with that.”

So Brian takes Ben’s hand, and Ben wants to kiss him, too, but he can wait for that. Suddenly the future looks a hell of a lot brighter, and for some reason, he thinks he can thank Alaric and Damon for that. Maybe he’ll go back to San Francisco, take Brian this time.

No. He’s seen San Francisco. They’ll go to Italy.

Future looks bright indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who voted for me in the Energize-WIP awards - I took a third of the vote and came second place by two votes! Amazing! Love you guys :D  
> See you next week!


	16. 2027 - Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Elena take temporary custody of a little boy who was found wandering in the woods near Mystic Falls. His arrival coincides with a new spate of animal attacks.
> 
> Chapter warning: torture of an OC who is (ambiguously) a bad guy.

The fact Liz Forbes accompanies child protective services to the Donovan house makes Elena feel cold, and ill. The woman is tall, professional-looking, with mousy hair swept in a bun; she doesn’t look very warm, and Elena aches to take the frightened child from her right away.

She and Matt had signed up as foster parents prepared to adopt less than six weeks prior, with a warning it may never happen.

“Liz?”

Liz pushes through the door, and the woman carrying the small, terrified boy on her hip, with his face buried against her chest follows behind.

“Mrs. Donovan,” she says. “I’m Leslie Bates. And this is Jack. Jack?” The little boy turns his face towards Elena’s, frightened and hopeful. Hair thick and dark, and a little shaggy, eyes green and haunted. He doesn’t speak. Elena gives him a solid smile.

“I’m Elena,” she tells him, softly. “And this is Matt, and Jenna.” When she turns to her husband and daughter, Jenna’s face is undisguised curiosity. Elena fought to keep her hopes down. “You’re going to live with us, for now at least.”

Jack’s chin quivers, and he nods. Brave. Has to be, to have gotten this far.

It’s the work of an hour to get Jack settled into the bed prepared for him. Elena sets up the baby monitor – Jack is about five, maybe six, but traumatized, presumably, and Elena wants to hear him if he wakes with nightmares. Matt has made coffee, and when Elena returns to the living room, she gratefully accepts a cup.

Leslie refuses, politely. “You have to consider him a special needs child. If you’re not sure you can do this…”

Matt is firm. “No,” he said. He turns to Liz. “What happened to him, Sheriff?”

“I’m not the Sheriff anymore, Matt,” she insists. “We don’t know much more than we did when I spoke to you this morning. He was found wandering in the woods, close to the highway. He’s malnourished, sgratched and bruised from wandering in the woods – lucky it’s warm, or he might not have made it – but he hasn’t been abused. So far, he hasn’t been reported missing, but obviously, he’s missing.” Liz sighed. “We have deputies… searching for clues. In a couple of days, we’ll start putting his face out to the news networks.”

“And he’s only said his name?” Matt looks stricken, and Elena loves him for it.

Liz shakes her head. “His name was sewn into his clothes. So his parents do care. Elena… Matt… I don’t think this will be long-term. Care for him…”

Leslie nods. “But don’t get attached. We have every reason to believe he has a loving home. Assuming…”

Elena closes her hand over Matt’s. “Assuming his parents are alive.” She nods. “We get it, Liz. It’s okay. Keep us informed.”

 

**

 

Jack doesn’t speak. He only eats when he has been coaxed and cajoled. He sleeps poorly, and wakes often. After a week, a child psychologist visits. He calls himself Dr Ed. He has strong features and sad grey eyes, and reminds Elena of a Kodiak bear. He spends an hour with Jack and then speaks quietly in the kitchen to Elena and Matt.

“Whatever happened… I don’t think he remembers,” he says, gently. “Which doesn’t mean he won’t. But he’s intelligent. There’s no reason to think he can’t speak. He is choosing not to, for now, and that’s okay.” He pulls out a day planner. “I’m going to need to see him once a week. The cost is covered, but you’ll have to bring him to me, from now on. I presume that won’t be a problem?” His face is serious, peering at Elena and Matt as his hand hovers over the page. “Thursdays at four o’clock?”

Elena swallows, and nods. It won’t be easy. She doesn’t much care. Jack may not speak but when he holds her hand, he holds it tight. She wonders briefly if she could ask Damon and Alaric for some money, enable her to take a couple of months completely off work. She could take freelance gigs, they pay okay.

She can’t ask and she won’t ask. Matt places his hand on the small of her back. “Thursdays at four o’clock,” he agrees, and Dr. Ed goes.

Lying in bed, Elena rests her cheek on Matt’s chest. The light streams in the window, playing across his features, leeching the color from his eyes.

“Is this a mistake?”

Matt runs his hand over her arm. “Is what a mistake?”

“Jack. Can we do this?”

Matt is silent a long time. “We’ll do a better job than most people would. We’re not in it for the money.”

Elena shakes her head. “The money is dire. Do you… “ she swallows, hard. “Do you think there’s any chance we’ll be able to keep him?”

Matt spends a long time thinking about this, and Elena can follow the train of his thoughts with her own. The best thing would of course be to find his parents, alive and well and frantic with worry. The worst would be to lose him to the system, or to some living relative who can’t see what an amazing little boy he is, because surely no one can see that the way Elena can.

Tears gather in her eyes.

“Let’s just try to get some sleep,” Matt says, and Elena rolls over, tucking herself against him like a little spoon against a big one. She sleeps, if fitfully.

 

**

 

Little changes, in two weeks; Jack still doesn’t speak, though he plays with Jenna, a little, and keeps his eyes wide on hers as she explains in detail the intricacies of the Shadowhawk Babes (released a little over a year ago, they are kickass monster fighters little girls love because they have colorful outfits and long hair, and moms love because their bodies are little girl bodies, and not improbably proportioned Barbie bodies, and little boys love because they each have a war-cry that sounds when you press a button on their back, and marketers love because they generate a bajillion dollars a second in revenue) and their relationship to the newly released male counterparts, the Lightcrow Boys. “The leader of the Shadowhawks is Lali, and the leader of the boys is Tito, and they love each other. But they don’t kiss because that’s gross.”

Jack nods his sincere agreement, and with an almost worshipful precision, presses the button on Lai’s back that makes her scream ‘HIIIII-YA!’

His eyes go wide, and Elena smiles.

“This is one of the monsters,” Jenna says, and Elena continues to slice cheese for sandwiches. “When you press the button, he changes. His name is Louis. He’s a werewolf.”

When Jack presses the button, the wolf-face emerges from its latex prison.

Jack starts to scream.

The sound is so unexpected that Elena takes long seconds to work out what she is hearing. She drops the knife, vaguely aware that it has clattered to the ground, rushing into the living room to kneel by Jack, hold his arms. His eyes are white all the way around, and his cheeks are red. He is almost rigid with fear until Elena pulls him close, and then he fights, for a long moment, managing somehow to land a tiny fist in her eye.

And then he goes limp. Elena rubs circles into his back, making nonsensical shushing noises. Jenna remains sitting where she is, Lali still held tight in one hand. Once Jack has calmed in Elena’s arms, Jenna takes her turn, weeping miserably until Elena has both children tucked against her.

They wear themselves out enough so they are both prepared to sleep a while. After tucking them both in, Elena sits on the couch with Louis, pressing the button in his back that makes his face change, over and over, and then hides him in a childproof drawer and starts to prepare dinner.

The children need comfort food, so there is macaroni and cheese, with some strategically concealed cauliflower and corn kernels, for them. Risotto for herself and Matt, the way Damon taught her to make it. Elena is starting to feel better, and the whole house smells like fried mushrooms, when there is a knock at the door.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, and wiping tears from her eyes – they’ve been randomly assaulting her all afternoon – Elena checks the peep hole.

She opens the door. “Liz,” she says.

Liz Forbes takes in Elena’s tear-stained face, the shake in her hands, and pulls Elena in for a hug. Elena and Matt have no parents of their own to turn to, to say ‘are we doing it right?’, and Elena regrets it so much. She supposes Liz regrets that she herself will never be a grandmother.

Elena cries a little against Liz’s shoulder, with Liz making reassuring noises. “How did you get a black eye?” she asks, and Elena stands up straighter.

“It’s a really dumb story. Can I tell it to you in horrifying detail?”

Liz is technically off the clock, so she sits at the kitchen counter and Elena pours wine.

“Do you think…?”

“Werewolves?”

Elena waits for Liz to disagree, tell her it’s impossible, no werewolves have been seen in Mystic since 2011; but Liz studies her hands until Elena demands an explanation.

“We found two campers. A man and a woman. Dead. Animals attacks.”

Elena shifts from foot to foot and sips her wine. “Vampires.”

“No. Not vampires. But wolves…? Possibly.” Liz shakes her head. “Or, you know, actual animals. I’m not going to tell you what condition the bodies were in, but it could have been actual animal attacks.” She shudders.

“The people you found. Are they. Could they be…?”

“Very unlikely. They look too young. But we don’t have IDs yet.” Liz shifts in her seat. “Full moon was over a week ago.”

Elena sucks air through her teeth. “Hybrids, then.” They are silent, and Elena tops up the glasses, holding ice to the eye she didn’t know she had bruised, stirring the risotto carefully.

Liz nods. “Or actual animals.”

Elena nods. “Or actual animals.”

“I thought I’d call Damon and Alaric.” Liz sighs. “But not yet. Not until we know.”

Elena scrunches her nose. “I’ll do it.” She speaks to them a few times a week and explaining why she hasn’t told them they’ve taken in a second child will be interesting – really, she’s just afraid she’s going to lose Jack, can hardly bear to talk about him, but it’s a major omission.

“I think that’s a good idea. Only…”

Elena sighs. “What, Liz?”

“They have to keep a low profile. They can’t be _back_. Jackson Fell is obsessed. He’s been going through records. Even sniffing around the boarding house.” Liz looks vaguely sheepish. “But I can’t… The Council doesn’t know about hybrids. They don’t even know about werewolves.”

“They wouldn’t stand a chance against hybrids or wolves anyway. I’m amazed they haven’t all been killed by vampires.” Elena nods. She knows why, of course; Damon, Alaric, Stefan. “And no one recognizes Jack yet?” She tries to keep the treacherous hope from her voice but it sneaks in.

“No one.” Liz sips at the wine.

Perhaps it is because she knows people who are not aging, and will never age, but Elena notices every sign of the process on other people; the lines around Liz’s eyes seem greater in number every day. “Can I count on you to call the boys? Maybe just prime them – Meredith Fell is doing the autopsies tomorrow. After that…”

The boys. Eternal boys, in a way. Elena looks to be the same age as Alaric, now.

Elena agrees, and Liz stands to leave, just as Matt arrives home. Liz bids them both farewell, and Elena tells Matt about the day; the toy, the tiny fist.

“Was he trying to hurt you?” Matt is worried, but Matt is always worried; he worries all day about his apathetic students, and comes home to worry about his wife, and his daughter, and the little boy he’s falling in love with just as surely as Elena is.

“He was just throwing himself around.” Elena feels tears threaten again, and blinks them away. Matt tucks a long, curly tendril of hair behind her ear, and pulls her close. “He was scared, Matt. I think he was remembering something.”

“Tomorrow’s Thursday,” Matt says. “Psychologist.”

Elena pulls away, and returns to the pots. “Yes. Dr Ed. Dr Ed will make everything better.” And she continues, with Liz’s part of the story, dead campers, animal attacks.

“So you and Liz think hybrids killed… But aren’t they…” Matt shakes his head, frustrated, and Elena knows he is asking himself for the hundredth time why they haven’t put Mystic Falls in the rear view mirror and left it behind permanently. “They’re friends, right? With Tyler and Jeremy? And Damon and Alaric?”

“Well. Damon and Alaric win a lot of money off them at poker.” Elena rolls her eyes. Matt is not in the mood to be made to laugh. “Anyway, that’s only the pack in Tennessee. I have no idea how many other wolves Klaus turned. And they might still have that sire bond thing. You know?”

Jenna and Jack choose that moment to descend the stairs, the late afternoon sun making them look for all the world like a pair of sleepy children. Jenna has Jack’s hand neatly tucked in her own, and appears to be yawning, while assisting him to navigate the stairs.

Elena’s heart melts, and Matt’s does, too, again.

After dinner, cleaning up, trying to calm Jenna down – Jenna insists she has had enough sleep so that she can sit up and watch television if she wants, she is a big sister now, there is another knock on the door.

Matt answers it, while Elena speaks in an urgent whisper to Jenna. “Big sisters have to be a good example by going to bed when they’re told to,” and she is supremely irritated by the knock on the door, as it is distracting Matt, and she’s had a long day, and she needs his help, and, and.

“We can save you up to two hundred dollars a year on your electricity. I imagine a growing family like yours could find something to do with that cash in your pocket.”

“Look, man, this is a really bad -”

“It really won’t take long.”

Elena marches across to the door. “Have you got a card? A brochure? We’ll call you.”

The man smiles. He’s attractive. Mid-twenties, in a well-cut suit, and his teeth are very white, meeting his bright blonde hair and blue eyes in a very Aryan salute. “I’m fresh out. I can sign you up in just a few minutes. Listen, why don’t you invite me in -”

So he’s heard of them, but he hasn’t heard enough. Elena has the crossbow from its concealed place by the door and pointed right at his heart before he can finish his sentence.

Jenna and Jack have fallen silent. Matt has stepped away from the door and is rounding them towards the living room. Jenna doesn’t even protest.

The man’s smile falters.

Elena is shocked at how calm she sounds. “Get away from my family.”

“There’s no need to…”

“I said get away from my family.” Elena draws back on the bow.

The man – vampire, hybrid, werewolf, whatever he is, would be standing in a puddle of his own urine by now, if he was human. But instead, his lip is curled back, revealing teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you or your family.” He narrows his eyes. “I’ve come for the boy.”

“The boy is my family,” Elena says, and shuts the door.

There is a long, shocked silence in the Donovan house. Elena watches through the peephole as the man turns, irritated, tension running through his frame like electricity, down the steps and into the night.

“Mommy,” Jenna says, awed, “are you a Shadowhawk Babe?”

 

**

 

Alaric packs clothing, including the Kevlar riding gear he had forgotten all about. Bought years ago for the hybrid turf war and thank god he hasn’t just thrown it out, but from time to time Damon makes noises about buying motorcycles and it makes sense to just keep it there in the back of the cupboard and why won’t Damon just answer his motherfucking phone?

There are still plenty of weapons at the boarding house. This is great because it means they can fly, don’t have to carry weapons, and that saves time. And Alaric has tickets booked for less than two hours from now, all the way to Charlottesville; an overnight flight to New York first, and they’ll arrive in Charlottesville in time to pick up a rental car and be in Mystic before eleven tomorrow morning.

Alaric throws two large sports duffels into the boot of his truck (far less likely to get stolen or vandalized in the long-term parking at the airport than Damon’s hot little Camaro) and drives the ten blocks to the bar.

Damon is sitting in the back corner with three other guys, playing poker, and with a grin on his face Alaric regrets he’s going to have to wipe off. Damon meets his eyes and smiles, and returns to the game. Alaric approaches the bar.

“Harry.” Harry turns, with a slow smile. “Damon and I are gonna be out of town for a while. Do whatever needs doing. And don’t fuck up.”

“Mon capitan,” Harry agrees. “Everything okay?”

No, nothing’s okay. “Fine. We just won’t be reachable.” Harry gives a knowing smile, a smile that says ‘sexcapades’, and Alaric resists the urge to smack it off him, before approaching Damon’s table.

“We have to go,” he says. “Now.”

“But honey, I’m winning.” The lazy smirk, the cock of his chin.

“Got a call from Mystic.”

Damon looks up at last, no smile left on his face. In fact, he look furious, which is fucking awesome. He folds his hand and pushes his considerable winnings into the centre of the table. “Sorry, kids. Divvy that up. I’m out.”

Alaric loves Damon an awful lot, in that moment.

He has half the story explained by the time they get to the truck, and the rest long before they hit the main drag on the way out to the airport.

Damon frowns. “Is it weird that I’m mostly thinking they got another kid and didn’t tell us?”

Alaric shrugs. “Tell you the truth I just keep imagining Elena pulling a crossbow on a door-to-door salesman and trying not to laugh.”

“Can she shoot?”

“Not like Jeremy can. But better than average.” Alaric curses everything they do to stay under the radar because they will be pushing it to make this flight, but it’s impossible – impossible – to speed these days and not get caught and under the radar is the only way to live. As if Damon can read his thoughts he reaches out, places a careful hand on Alaric’s shoulder.

“Chill,” he says. “We’ll get there.”

And Damon calls Elena, and keeps her on speakerphone; and calls Liz, who is far too old for this shit (and that sort of breaks Alaric’s heart a little, and makes him miss the days when the three of them – or four, on days when Carol didn’t have a stick up her ass, used to drink too much, at the boarding house, at the Lockwood mansion, at the Grill) and Liz says Meredith, who has a seven year old son of her own has gone back to the hospital to do the autopsy. It’s not finished yet.

“But the tooth marks are too big to be from an actual wolf.” Liz sounds sick; the first time around she maybe found this kind of cool, but now, it’s only terrifying. She knows what it all looks like, now.

“Fucking hybrids,” Damon says, as Alaric parks the truck. “We’ll call you from Charlottesville.”

“It could be a werewolf.” Alaric frowns.

“If it was just a werewolf it wouldn’t have needed an invitation to get into the house. Come on.” He pulls the duffels from the boot, and hands one to Alaric. After ensuring the car is locked, they head for the terminal.

On the plane they are tense, and Alaric holds Damon’s hand, tight, because the Worst Feeling In The World is not knowing the plot when you’re about to jump into the story. A flight attendant gives them an incredulous, fond look. They’re always friendlier in first class.

“You do know there hasn’t been a plane crash in nine years?” he says. “Anywhere in the world? You couldn’t crash one of these things if you tried to.”

“Not worried about crashing,” Alaric says, gnashing his teeth. “It’s what’s on the other end.”

He leans in a little, and grins. “I’ll do my level best to get you both drunk enough so you can sleep through the flight,” he promises, and slips away down the aisle.

All things considered, he does a good job, for someone who has carefully clocked the wedding rings and knows not be so much as a blow job will eventuate from being this friendly. Briefly, Alaric thinks (as he does, when he is feeling self-indulgent) that when this kid (okay, so mid-twenties, but Alaric’s standards for ‘kid’ have changed) falls in love he’s going to be able to get married in part because of him and Damon, and he grips Damon’s hand a little tighter, there in his own lap.

Somehow, they are both able to sleep; after all, they need to prepare for the coming fight.

 

**

 

At the Donovan house, things are tense. A police car is parked on the street – what a cop is supposed to do, Alaric doesn’t know, but it’s there. Hell, maybe the Council is better prepared these days. Elena bits back tears as she nestles her face into Alaric’s shoulder, while Jenna does her level best to beat Damon to death with her tiny fists, a delighted look on her face.

She’s so grown up. And equally delighted to see Alaric, to whom she announces, “Mommy is a Shadowhawk Babe.”

Alaric has no idea what that means, so he nods. “She is, huh?”

“She’s gonna teach me how to use a bow and arrow like Robin Hood. He can’t be a Shadowhawk because he’s a boy. But he can be a Lightcrow.”

Alaric can’t disagree with this either, so he cocks his chin toward the living room, and asks Jenna, “you gonna introduce me to your friend?”

Jack is sitting with Matt and hasn’t come to the door, because Jack is shaking, terrified, and Matt wants to give him a moment to get used to the new faces before he is introduced. Matt gives a friendly, exhausted smile. Jenna takes Alaric by the hand and leads him to them both.

“This is Jack. He’s not my brother but he might be one day.”

Matt wants to correct her, and doesn’t. Alaric crouches down, so he is below Jack’s eye-level, and holds a hand out to shake.

It’s when Jack’s little heart starts to race and he lifts his tiny hand to be closed in Alaric’s that Alaric smells it; rich, earthy blood in his veins. Familiar, somehow, and not. It’s not a regular human scent. He suspects he has flared his nostrils, a touch, but his eyes do not betray him. He shakes Jack’s hand solemnly.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m Alaric. You can call me Ric.”

“He doesn’t talk,” Jenna supplies helpfully; “but it’s not because he’s stupid or anything.”

(One day Jenna will be a teenager and Alaric doesn’t envy Matt and Elena that at all, because much as he loves his goddaughter, she is going to be a handful.)

“Jenna!” Matt says.

“Mommy told me he’s not stupid! Are you, Jack?”

Jack continues to hold Alaric’s eyes. Alaric has to fight not to turn away. “That’s Damon,” he says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

Jack looks up at Damon, eyes wide and bright, and nods very seriously, turning to look at Alaric again.

Alaric stands, and returns to the kitchen.

“What are you going to do?” Elena asks.

Damon shrugs. “First stop is the boarding house. We’ll get weapons. Wolfsbane. We’ll cook it up here, for grenades -”

“No,” Alaric says. “We’ll do it at the house. We’ll be back in a few hours. We’ll stay here tonight.”

“I’ll make up the guest room.”

“We won’t be _sleeping_ ,” Damon says, wrinkling his nose, and still looking at Alaric like he’s crazy. He won’t argue, though, so much of their communication these days in non-verbal they’d never contradict each other in public about anything but food, booze or sex. “We’ll be creeping around like a pair of…” he flicks eyes sideways, to where Jenna is gazing adoringly at him, big smile on her face. “Like a pair of policemen,” he finishes, and hauls Jenna up onto his hip.

“We’ll see you when you get back, then,” Elena says. “Please, well before dark?”

“Well before dark,” Alaric promises, and they go.

In the car Damon turns piercing silver-grey eyes on Alaric and frowns. “The fuck was that about? Why not do the grenades here? I don’t like them being on their own. It’s not like hybrids have to wait until the sun -”

“Damon.”

It’s hard to explain some of the things Alaric knows, sometimes, and he’s never been sure how much Damon knows or suspects of this. He could explain. The redheaded vampire at Mardi Gras. Knowing a vampire was in the house, the night Rebecca abducted them. Bonnie’s Jack (and he’ll always be that, now, he was ‘Jack’ last week but now there’s Jack and ‘Bonnie’s Jack’) – Damon didn’t even know he was a witch, until Alaric mentioned him weeks later.

(“Bonnie’s slice of Africa? He’s a witch?”

“Nice, Damon.”

“Not being racist. That accent? Hey, do you know if it’s true, about black guys?”

“Damon!”

“No,” Damon had said. “No. Bonnie makes my teeth ache. I got nothing off him.”

“Bonnie comes from the most powerful bloodline of witches on the continent. She’s a forest fire. He’s a candle.” And Damon had been intrigued enough by that conversation to demand to be allowed to eat whipped cream off Alaric’s body for the next fifteen minutes but not enough to have given it another moment’s thought in, what, six years? Seven?)

“Do you know if people from the werewolf bloodlines get sick from wolfsbane? Or is it just after the curse has been triggered?”

Damon snorts. “I’ll just ring all my friends who don’t know yet if they’re werewolves, find out for you. What a fucking stupid question. How would I know?”

Alaric narrows his eyes. “You need to eat.” Grumpy Damon alert, awesome.

“So do you.” Fair. But Damon is still waiting for an explanation. “That kid’s a wolf,” Alaric says.

Damon is silent for a long time, and then snickers. “You’re reaching.”

“I’m not. I can smell it on him.”

“What six year old kid could possibly have killed someone?”

“I mean his bloodline, you complete dick.” They need to eat. Need to eat urgently. Should have done it in Charlottesville.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“You can’t possibly make a fog roll in. And yet.”

Damon frowns. “Hitchhikers,” he says, and they pull over; snack, and see the pair home safely. Calmed again, watching as the guys slip into a house on the same street as Alaric’s old loft, Alaric takes Damon’s elbow.

“Kid’s a werewolf,” he says again.

Damon frowns, holding Alaric’s eyes, and then simply accepts it. “So we make grenades at the boarding house.” And then something bright flashes across his face, because they miss the boarding house, both of them do.

Damon throws the door open with a flourish. “Home sweet home,” he says, smirking, reclaiming the space, reasserting his dominion. Alaric can’t actually read Damon’s thoughts, but he knows it has occurred to Damon that they should do something to rechristen the place with pheromones and sweat.

There’s not time for anything more than a shower, but they make it a memorable one. Drying off, and dressing again, Damon gazes sadly at the bed.

“I miss that bed. That’s a good bed.”

“It’s a bed, Damon,” Alaric says, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head.

 

**

 

“It would start to explain why there are hybrids after him,” Damon says, as he stirs the pot. It’s strong. Alaric has to admit he actually likes the smell; it’s a little bitter and a little sweet. Brings back memories, too, Damon getting irritable because Alaric is cooking up vervain in the loft and he can’t go near the place for a day or so, until the fumes are well and truly gone. Showering, scrubbing himself raw, shampooing his hair; Damon sniffing suspiciously at him until he’s quite sure none of the toxic stuff remains anywhere on Alaric.

“Which means his parents are probably dead, somewhere,” Alaric admits. “Poor kid.”

“Could do worse for replacements,” Damon says. He ignores Alaric’s eye roll. They have to let the liquid cool, so they wander around the house for a while, reacquainting themselves with favorite spots, and end up, unsurprisingly, sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace.

There’s no fire, no ash, even. It’s been properly cleaned out. Looks a little sad, like that. Alaric sips at a glass of bourbon and rubs Damon’s shoulder. “But how do you know?” Damon wants to know.

“There’s a smell.” Alaric shakes his head. “Rich blood. Meat. Something like that.”

“And witches…”

“Just like what we get with Bonnie, just milder.”

“You can spot vampires, too, can’t you? Fuck me but that could have come in handy over the years.” He shakes his head. “I met someone else who could do that, once. Long time ago.” Sounds a little wistful.

Alaric shrugs. “Can’t control crows.”

“I wish you could. We could go flying together.” Damon grins. “Weapons in the car and then we’ll pack the grenades.”

There’s a knock on the door, then. Liz Forbes, looking improbably old; she’s only, what, sixty? But time is accelerating, it seems sometimes. She hugs Damon, hugs Alaric, and then spreads the photographs and autopsy results over the table.

“Meredith Fell says it was three hybrids. Two males and a female.”

“And are these Jack’s parents?” Alaric really, really hopes not, because the photos are shocking. At least vampires have a little decorum.

That’s a lie, mostly.

Liz shakes her head. “Definitely not. Rudimentary blood typing says no.” She looks hopeful. “Do you think you can find them?”

“We’ll stay at the Donovans’ tonight. Head out tomorrow and see if we can catch the scent from where you found the bodies. Sound like a plan?” Damon slings his hand over Alaric’s hip, and Liz nods gratefully.

“Can you have a good look at the photos? See if there’s anything we might have missed? We still don’t have IDs.”

Alaric agrees, leaning over the table.

“And…”

Damon rolls his eyes. “We’ll stay out of town. You know, we could kill that Jackson kid. Surely that would save some time. Bet it’d make _your_ job easier.”

Liz says nothing, just glares.

Damon makes a disgusted noise. “Relax, Liz. I’m joking. Like, ninety percent joking.”

Alaric suspects it is something rather less than ninety percent, but he shakes his head, and picks up a photograph, examining it closely. “Fucking horrible,” he breathes. “We’ll try.”

“Thanks,” Liz says, and passes a rucksack; “blood bags. You want to get them refrigerated ASAP. Same rules apply, boys. I won’t have you hunting in Mystic Falls.”

Touching, and not worth an argument. They’ll be fine.

It takes over ninety minutes to pack the wolfsbane grenades, make up a couple of dozen darts and a handful of syringes, and fill the car with weapons and bourbon (blood bags or not, they need to keep the edge off the cravings) and head back to the Donovan house. By the time they get there it’s dinner time. The kids are eating already, Jenna chattering away at sixty miles a minute and Jack eating methodically, eyes wide on his (not sister) little friend.

When they are watching Ice Age 11 in front of the television, quiet at last, the grownups sit at the dining table and speak quietly over their own meal. Damon shoots Alaric several looks; he wants to know if Alaric is going to tell Matt and Elena what he knows.

He won’t. Doesn’t even meet Damon’s eye. He talks about the bar, instead, about life in San Francisco, about the weapons they’ve brought, their plan for tomorrow. He asks Matt about teaching, Elena about Jack, about Jenna.

They’re eating spaghetti Bolognese, Damon’s recipe – Alaric recognizes it – and Damon compliments Elena on a job well done because it is thick, and rich, and tasty. Elena smiles a half-smile.

“Had a good teacher,” she says. “All my best recipes are yours.”

Damon looks smug.

Around eleven, Matt and Elena go to bed, and Alaric and Damon set up to sit quiet as mice in the living room where they can see anyone approach from the front of the house.

It’s a long and uneventful night. No one comes. They don’t speak, don’t breathe. Occasionally they sip at their glasses of bourbon, careful not to let themselves become impaired; and as the sun comes up, Damon stretches and groans and complains.

“This is going to take forever,” he says. “We should do something to bring them out. Maybe put the kid in a nice cage in the middle of the front garden?”

“Nice,” Elena says, coming down the stairs. “Don’t you dare say that in front of Jack. He’d probably have a heart attack.” She starts a pot of coffee. Reaching into the drawer to find a filter, she finds the toy. Alaric watches as she presses the button in his back, making the wolf face push forward.

“That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Damon declares, frowning. He takes it from Elena’s hand, and presses the button over and over. “And… scary accurate.”

Alaric takes it, studying it for a good long time.

It _is_ scary accurate.

 

**

 

There has been no rain; this is good. The scent trail is murky, initially, with police, and paramedics, and puke, but they spiral out until the path is clear.

The path towards the kill site is a bad path; they would have come through as wolves, in the underbrush, and it is thick and scraggly. In the other direction, there is a little blood splatter – almost impossible to notice, for anyone without either vampire senses or a UV light, and it heads deeper into the forest again.

Alaric shakes his head. “No. We should go the other way. We need to know where they came from. Not where they were going.”

“This way’s easier,” Damon grumbles, shifting irritably in his Kevlar. But they push through, scratches on their hands and faces healing as quickly as they receive them. They follow the scent – getting harder, now, and the wind is picking up, for a couple of hours.

A stronger scent suddenly starts to come through. Blood, meat. Blood splatter starts to appear on the ground again. They follow that more quickly, another mile or so, the scent vanishing occasionally when the wind takes it, an then coming back again. They push through one last screen of trees.

And find a camper van.

How a camper van got here, Alaric can’t imagine. There’s no car, and no number plate. The door is open, torn half off its pathetic hinges, really, and the scent of death is strong. Alaric unsheathes a large knife, but knows there is nothing here alive.

“Ah, gross,” Damon says, stepping inside.

“Jack’s parents?” Alaric follows him.

“I’d guess so. I can smell the kid in here, too. And look.” There are children’s toys on a table.

“How could a kid get away from this?”

The dead bodies have very little meat left, and the clothes are in bloody tatters; their faces are in good shape, though, if dead and bloated. Not much to eat there. Alaric crouches to take photographs with his phone, avoiding as much carnage as possible, and calls Liz.

“Think we found the parents,” he says. “I’m sending photos of their faces.”

“Geotag them,” Liz says, sighing. “We’ll send out reinforcements.”

The next few hours are pretty unpleasant, Damon and Alaric enduring curious stares from various deputies, though it’s nice to see Meredith, for the first time in a few years; she looks good, happy, if tired. Being a mom and the Council’s cleaner and a doctor can’t be easy.

“At least I don’t have to lose paperwork, this time,” she says. “No question this was an animal attack.”

Liz steps out of the trailer looking stricken and with a framed photograph in her hand. The dead people in the trailer, and a little boy who, while at least a year younger, is undoubtedly Jack. He is beaming at the camera. Innocent, happy with his parents.

It makes Alaric’s heart hurt.

“What will happen to him?”

Liz shrugs. “We have enough to ID them, now. If he has family he’ll go to them. Or the Donovans can apply for custody, try to adopt him. Why would anyone have targeted them? Specifically?”

“What makes you think they were targeted at all?” Meredith wants to know. “Looks like a hit ‘n’ run to me.”

“Only one possibility,” Alaric says. “They’re after the kid. They came after him at the Donovans’ place. They must have come after him here, too.”

“But why?”

Alaric shrugs, and Damon shrugs, and they head back into town.

 

**

 

Vampires need sleep. They don’t need a lot of sleep, but they need sleep. Damon and Alaric catch a few hours in the Donovans’ spare room, rising in time to eat and drain a few blood bags and sniff around the edges of the property line. All they can smell can be explained by the visit two nights ago.

“I almost wish they’d do something,” Elena admits. “I know they’ll be coming back. Waiting is the worst.”

Damon and Alaric agree. They’re getting irritable, feeling useless. “They’ll be back. Now we’ve found…” Alaric flicks his eyes towards Jack, who is listening to Jenna talk. And talk and talk. “They can’t stay in the area much longer.”

Damon agrees, and nods, from where he is standing, there by the window. “Tonight’s the night,” he says.

When everyone has gone to bed Damon and Alaric step outside, onto the porch. The light remains off. Damon walks in one direction around the house and Alaric in the other, each checking the fence line, sniffing for anything that doesn’t belong.

Damon is almost back at the front door when he grabs his neck, and grunts, and sways, and collapses to the ground. Obviously shot with a dart. One of the hybrids – the one Elena has already met, Alaric assumes, as he has very white blond hair – is on Damon, on the ground, before Alaric can get there; both blurring.

The hybrid brings a hand up to stake Damon and just as Alaric gets there – the whole thing takes under a second, and yet forever – and Damon’s hand shoots up, taking the man by the throat.

“Gotcha,” he says, and Alaric breaks his arm, making him cry out, drop the stake.

He is silent a second later, with his bloodstream full of wolfsbane. In the street there is a screeching of tires, and a car pulls away.

Once they have the guy hog-tied in the trunk of the rental car (he’d better not throw up or bleed) Damon and Alaric inject him with two more syringes full of wolfsbane – enough to keep him down for at least a couple of hours – they go back inside the house and watch, waiting to see if his friends will come back for him. Alaric has a window open a notch, wolfsbane dart gun resting on the window frame. He’s very still, waiting. Two kinds of bait now; a little boy and a fallen friend.

“Where did the dart hit you?” Alaric asks; his heart has only just begun to slow down.

“In the chest. Bounced right off the Kevlar. These things are genius. We should take him back to the boarding house,” Damon whispers. From where he is, at the front door, squinting through the peephole, no one else would be able to hear him, at that volume. “So we can make him scream. Not sure that would go down well on this street.”

Alaric nods. The sun comes up at last, and Alaric goes outside to pump their shiny new friend full of poison again. His eyes are sort of open. He looks sick, and angry, and makes a pathetic attempt to shift away.

Alaric pauses, and leans over the open trunk. “You wanna tell me your name?”

“Fuck you,” he says, eyeing the syringe. He speaks like his mouth is full of cotton wool.

“That’s a funny name.”

A narrowing of bright blue eyes. “Justin.”

Alaric nods. “I’m sorry about your arm, Justin. I don’t like torturing people to get what I need,” he says. “I really don’t.” The look in the man’s eyes is cautious, but angry. “My partner, though? He really likes it. And he hasn’t had much of a chance to flex his muscles in a while. Last time was a hybrid too, actually. I’ll tell you about it, right before I ask you what you want with Jack. Which will be right before he starts his reenactment. See you in an hour or so.”

Alaric closes the trunk and heads inside for coffee.

Once the story has been relayed to Elena and Matt, Elena starts to cry. “He’s just a little boy,” she says. “What could they possibly want with him?” Matt puts his arms around her.

Damon and Alaric share a long look.

“You have to tell them,” Damon says.

Alaric lets his shoulders slump. “Damon…”

Matt looks angry. “Tell us. Whatever it is.”

“Just don’t panic, okay?”

“Quickest way to get people panicking is saying don’t panic, Ric. Just tell us.”

“He’s from a werewolf bloodline,” Alaric admits at last. “Doesn’t mean he’ll become one. You guys know that. To trip the curse you have to be responsible for another person’s death and the chances of that happening are slim to none.” He casts a worried glance at the stairs, thinking about big ears on small children. “You can’t worry about it. It’ll never happen.”

He knows as well as they do that it could, though.

“We’re going to take Justin to the boarding house for a chat.” Alaric grins with only one side of his face. “We’ll let you know what we find out.”

In the car, Damon drives, and following a stroke of brilliance, Alaric calls Tyler. He’s less than pleased with a phone call before seven in the morning.

“Can werewolves have children?”

He can hear Tyler rubbing his eyes. “No. Not once the trigger’s cursed… I mean,” and he yawns, “once the curse is triggered, no. Why?”

“Uh, can’t really talk about it at the moment, Ty…”

“… call me at six-oh-fuck you in the morning and…”

“… It’s life and death. Thanks, Ty,” and he hangs up, before he can get an earful of abuse.

“That’s your theory?” Damon wants to know. “You think they want to raise him?”

“Yeah, I do. I think they want to raise him, and probably, when they think he’s old enough, they’ll make sure he turns. And then they’ll come looking for…” Alaric nods in the direction of the trunk. “If they know who she is. They might not.”

Damon shakes his head. “Weird. The lack of need for birth control of any kind is one of my favorite things about being a vampire.”

“Yeah,” Alaric agrees. “I can’t imagine wanting to bring a child into this life. But Damon… werewolves age. Hybrids age. Maybe that makes them want more of a normal life.”

“Normal? I prefer being the eternal stud,” Damon mutters under his breath, as they arrive at the boarding house.

 

**

 

It’s been less than twenty minutes. Alaric held Justin’s mouth open while Damon forced wolfsbane into it and held Justin’s mouth closed, and now Justin is crying, hard, with Damon crouched in front of him.

Alaric feels sick and he hopes Damon does as well.

“Karen’s my sister, man,” he sobs. “She wants a kid. What am I supposed to do?”

Damon takes Justin’s hand and though it is a patently false gesture of comfort Justin does quiet down a bit. Alaric encourages him to tip his head back. He gratefully accepts water to rinse his mouth, and Alaric presents a bucket to spit into, and the look of gratitude on the guy’s face – and he’s, what, thirty five? – must have been a teenager himself, when Klaus turned him into a hybrid – is sort of sickening.

“I get that,” Damon says. False friend. Justin will take what he can get. “And the other guy with you – he’s her boyfriend?”

Justin nods. “Husband.”

“Why Jack?”

Justin looks up again, defiant.

Damon holds his eyes for a while, and then stands. In the corner of a room there is a bottle of strong wolfsbane tea, and a large water pistol. Damon makes a great show of filling it up. “You know, Justin,” he says, voice a drawl, almost understanding. “I get it. You got caught up in something. Bet she made you kill someone, right? When you were a teenager?”

He tests the water pistol. Justin allows a small nod, casting his eyes down into his lap, and lets out another sob.

It’s a myth that if you’re tough enough, you can withstand torture. It’s a myth that you can learn to. Of course, it’s also a lie that torture will necessarily get the truth; if someone genuinely doesn’t have an answer they will lie, make anything up, anything to stop the pain.

If they have the truth… they won’t try to lie, for long.

“There’s no real reason you have to die, Justin. You can tell us everything you know and we’ll let you go. You can just run. Run as far and as fast as you can.” Damon squirts Justin’s hand with the water pistol, and Justin screams again. “Next one goes in your eye,” Damon says.

“Jack’s mother was Mark’s sister.”

Alaric and Damon meet each other’s eyes. Somehow this is that much worse; Alaric can read it on Damon’s face, the thought of killing Stefan because Stefan had something Damon wanted…

Unthinkable.

“They’re psychos,” Justin admits. Tears pouring down his face. “They have no souls. Maybe I don’t either. I don’t know.”

Damon puts the water pistol aside and Justin breathes a little easier.

“Where can we find them?” Alaric asks.

“No idea.” Damon makes a disgusted noise in his throat, and Justin protests. “I mean it. We’ve been staying somewhere different every night.”

“That’s very unfortunate,” Damon says. He reaches for the water pistol. Sick to his stomach, Alaric holds Justin’s head still. “Any clues?”

Weirdly, Justin relaxes. Alaric can feel it. In his neck, in the set of his jaw.

“I heard you in the car,” Justin says. “The bitch. In the house back there. With the crossbow.”

Damon tenses and Alaric tenses and everything is suddenly very tense. Damon narrows his eyes.

“She’s the one, right? It’s her blood we need? She’s the doppelgänger,” he clarifies. “Ha. Karen and Mark would…” He lets his head roll back against Alaric’s hand and laughs harder. “Not just them. That’s a secret I could sell for millions. I’d better hope I make it out of here alive, huh?”

He sits up again, and Alaric releases his head. Moves to stand in front of him, next to Damon.

Justin chuckles, and then more than that. Lets his head roll back, his mouth open, and he issues a full-throated laugh.

Damon shakes his head. “Okay, man,” he says. “You asked for it.” And Damon’s hand shoots out faster than fast and Justin’s heart is in Damon’s hand and there is no more laughing.

Damon drops the heart into the bucket, a little spit and wolfsbane in the bottom of it now.

“I need a shower,” he says.

Alaric waits two minutes, three, and then unties the ropes. He lets Justin’s cooling body drop to the floor and carries the chair out into the corridor. He finds a sheet in the adjacent cellar and spends long, fumbling minutes wrapping Justin’s body. And then he goes upstairs to their bedroom, their bathroom.

Damon is under the shower, the steam building around him. He has his head pressed against the cool tile, the hot water running over the knots of his spine.

Alaric stands by the shower stall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Are you alright?”

“Well, I just tortured and killed a guy I felt genuinely sorry for,” Damon says, not moving.

“He obviously wanted you to kill him.”

“Obviously.” Damon turns off the water, and Alaric passes him a towel. “Fun part is we’re not done yet.” Damon starts to rub himself dry, and knots the towel around his waist. “Where the fuck are we even going to find them?”

“Same place we found him,” Alaric says. “The Donovans. They have to come back tonight.”

They leave Justin’s body where it is, for now.

 

**

 

“One down, three to go,” Damon says, sauntering into the Donovans. Elena bows her head, and Matt rubs reassuring circles into her back.

“Did you find out what they want?”

“A family,” Alaric says. “He’s the other guy’s nephew.” No point in trying to sugarcoat it.

“I can’t listen to this,” Elena says, heading into the living room to sit with Jack and Jenna. Jack tenses, and it obviously hurts her, but Elena helps with a castle of building blocks. Alaric notices that he, Matt, and Damon are watching with equal intensity.

Matt speaks. “He’s seeing a psychologist,” he says.

“How’s that going?” Damon answers, incredulous.

Matt shrugs. “No idea how it’s supposed to be going. He’s not talking.” He shifts his weight. “I know that much. Damon. You know you sort of owe me, right?”

Damon shrugs, and Alaric tenses. Always figured this would come eventually. Damon turned Matt’s sister Vicki and yeah there’s fair chance he would have lost her eventually anyway, lost her to drugs or despair, but instead Damon turned her into a vampire and Stefan killed her.

Matt accepts Damon’s part in their lives. As a devoted protector of Elena and Jenna. But yeah. Maybe Damon owes Matt a Thing.

“Could you… compel him? To be alright?” Matt doesn’t even know how to ask, what to ask for. But he’s asking.

Damon stills. “No.”

“No?” Matt’s pissed and Alaric is about to jump in.

“Can’t compel a kid. I’ve tried. What?” he asks, in response to Alaric’s disgusted grunt. “Their parents tell them to shut up all the time. I just say it with a little more conviction.”

Matt slumps again because he was prepared to argue with ‘won’t’, not with ‘can’t’.

“Maybe Ric could.”

Alaric’s head whips around. “What?”

“You’re better at it than me.” He looks up at Matt. “He can’t make fog, though. Or. You know. Control crows, or cook Italian food.” It’s intended to be flippant. It doesn’t sound that way.

“Damon.”

“I’ve tried to compel a kid before. Didn’t work. You maybe have a shot.” Still he hasn’t looked up. Eyes trained on Jack and Jenna and Elena, who has started to listen, and is shooting a look which is somehow both hopeful and angry.

“I can’t compel a kid. What if I fu- -udge it up?” Alaric shakes his head. “It’s… it’s out of the question, Damon.”

Matt argues. “It’s not out of the question. You couldn’t make it worse. Look at him.”

Elena stands, and crosses to the kitchen. She grabs Alaric’s hand. “Try.” Tears well in her eyes. “Try. For me.”

Neither Alaric nor Damon are really capable of saying no to Elena Gilbert. And with her eyes all wide like that, she’s Elena Gilbert again, no question.

Alaric feels genuinely ill.

“He’s a sick kid, Elena.” Alaric speaks low, quiet.

“How much worse could it be?”

“I have no idea and neither do you.”

Elena takes Alaric’s hand.“Please, Ric. Please.”

 

**

 

Jenna is tucked in, with a solemn promise that Jack isn’t going to be sitting up all night eating ice cream. She gives up because the emotional energy in the room is exhausting for everyone. Jack seems nervous, keen to follow up the stairs, but perhaps he is used to being told what to do, because when Elena tells him to wait, he holds her eyes a moment and then settles back onto the ground, tiny hands in a fist in his lap.

Elena sits behind him on the couch, and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Alaric sits on the ground in front of him. Jack looks up.

“Listen to me,” Alaric says, with a touch of eye flare.

Jack’s eyes go wide and dull.

Oh, fuck.

“Lift your right arm in the air.”

Jack complies. Alaric’s heart beats hard in his chest.

“Tell me what happened, Jack. Before they found you.”

“The wolf-people came and killed mommy and daddy and I was in the closet under the clothes. And first they had mean faces and then they were wolves.”

Elena’s eyes spill over with tears.

“Do you know who they are?”

Jack nods. “One of the wolf-men is my uncle Mark,” he says, and he look so sad. “I don’t know what mommy did wrong.”

It is strange, Alaric thinks; not that he has given a lot of thought to what Jack’s voice might sound like but he still thinks it doesn’t sound the way he thought it would; a little rasping. Perhaps it’s because he’s been silent for weeks.

“Did you see?”

“I heard.” Jack nods. “And I tried to count to a thousand and I couldn’t and I woke up and mommy and daddy were gotten eaten in the van and the wolf-men were gone and I went for a walk. You have to walk in a straight line.”

Alaric pauses for a long moment, and looks up to see Elena covering her eyes with her hand, sobbing silently.

Behind her, Damon wears a fierce, fond look. He nods at Alaric.

“Jack.” Jack looks up. “You won’t remember, anymore. You won’t remember what happened. Your parents loved you and they disappeared and now you have Elena and Matt.”

Jack nods.

“You talk, you play. You’re okay.” Alaric shudders. He wishes suddenly that he had days or weeks to plan this. The words seem wrong. “They love you. You’re safe here.”

“They love me,” Jack confirms, looking calm.

Alaric drops the compulsion. Jack looks confused, but he tips his head back, meeting Elena’s eyes. “I’m sleepy,” he says, and Elena pulls him into her lap. Holds him tight, holds him close. Jack settles against her, and when Alaric looks up, he sees that Matt is behind them, and that Damon has backed right into the kitchen, uncomfortable about being present for a family moment so intense.

“Goodnight,” Elena says, though it’s not yet nine, and she and Matt and Jack all go upstairs. Matt carries Jack, who nestles against him, looking for the first time like nothing more or less than a real little boy.

Alaric meets Damon in the kitchen.

“That was awesome,” Damon says, airily. He takes a few steps forward, pinning Alaric against the counter.

“I compelled that kid to forget his own parents and instantly recover from a trauma he should have been given time to deal with,” Alaric disagrees, though he presses his hands to Damon’s chest, following the line of muscles until his fingers reach Damon’s hips. “We’re deep in grays here.”

 

**

 

They wait; they watch. No one comes to the house. Eventually the sun pinks up the horizon. A little while later Alaric hears doors open and close, and hears giggling; Jenna enjoying the newfound chattiness she’s hoped for from her new brother. It warms his heart, dispels some of the unease he has been feeling about what he did. Damon disappears upstairs to shower, and Alaric makes coffee, starts splitting bagels for breakfast.

When Damon comes back Alaric showers, long and slow, letting the water warm him. He dries off and re-dresses in the same clothes, and is surprised by Jenna and Jack standing outside the bathroom door; “Boo!” they say in unison, and Alaric leaps back, pretending to be scared.

Their laughter is glorious.

“I hope you left some hot water,” Elena says, poaching eggs as Damon fries up bacon. Jenna and Jack outline their plans to start the real life Shadowhawk Babes and Lightcrow Boys and Alaric has to shake his head against the perfect domesticity of it all; because it is false. The other two are still out there, somewhere.

Damon keeps talking. “We’ll just stay here today. All day. Coming at you during the day is a hell of a lot riskier but they have to be getting desperate by now.” Alaric butters bagels, readying plates, so the whole fantastic cooked breakfast bonanza comes together perfectly, timed to the second, because Damon is most definitely the king of breakfast. “Or, we all go somewhere. Head out to the falls. If they’re watching the house, they’ll follow us, and that would actually be a good place to -” Damon casts a look at the children. “- arrest them. No one around.”

“Nowhere we can get safe,” either, Matt protests. “At least here, we -”

“They’ll burn the house down,” Alaric says. “You’ll grab the kids and coming running out and then… uh, we’ll never get to arrest them.”

“Like the ladybird song!” Jenna says at the top of her lungs, and they all silently agree not to speak even indirectly of the dire situation they’re in with children present, ever again.

Halfway through breakfast, there is a knock on the door. Alaric checks the peephole with a dart gun held low at his hip, but it’s Liz, looking a strange combination of relieved and furious. “I need to speak to you and Damon,” she says, and the three congregate on the porch.

“Do I really need to talk to you about disposing of bodies?”

Damon frowns. “No one’s gonna find him in the basement of the boarding house. What’s your problem?”

“My problem? My problem is you two chuckleheads leaving bodies in the parking lot of the sheriff’s station.”

Damon looks indignant. “What? We didn’t – we wouldn’t – wait, bodies? Plural? Guy with very pale hair and -”

It’s Liz’s turn to frown. “No. The woman had very pale hair…”

“Woman? Start from the beginning.” Alaric crosses his arms.

Liz explains quickly that she got a call from one of the deputies that there were two dead bodies in the parking lot; she had instructed him to cover them up, set a perimeter and keep trying to call the Sheriff. When she arrived, she saw the sick, stone-grey faces, the dirty black veins, and knew they had to be the hybrids.

She and Meredith were in the process of fucking up the paperwork so the bodies were cremated as infectious waste ASAP.

Alaric explains; the relationship between them all, Jack’s parents as well; the motivation for taking Jack, his uncle in the basement of the boarding house.

“Which leaves us with one question.” Damon grits his teeth, flares his nostrils. Eyes wide and bright silver. “Who? Liz. Is there anyone on the Council who…”

Liz shakes her head. “No one. No one who could have done that.”

Damon rarely looks a gift horse in the mouth. “Cheering,” he says. “We’ll deal with the third one. You know, Mystic Falls needs a hog farm.”

Liz sighs. “I don’t like it. If you get any ideas…”

“I have an idea,” Alaric says, and opens the door. “Coffee. Orange juice. A bagel.”

 

**

 

Two more days in Mystic Falls, reacquainting themselves with favored places in the boarding house and burying Justin’s body in the woods, and Damon and Alaric return to San Francisco. They head straight to the bar from the airport and arrive as it’s starting to get busy. Everything is well in hand.

Harry nods and waves from his place behind the bar. “You guys, uh, got flowers. They were delivered a couple of hours ago. They’re in the office.”

Weird.

Yes, it’s definitely a bunch of flowers. A huge, expensive-looking bunch of flowers. Heavy-headed lilies expertly wired to stay upright. Tulips and Gerber daisies, and it’s taking up half of the office.

“The fuck?” Damon frowns. “Elena wouldn’t…”

“No,” Alaric says, pulling out a card, tucked neatly into the cellophane wrap. He reads it and groans, passing it to Damon. “She wouldn’t.”

“ _Dear Damon and Ric, you_ … oh, fuck me. _You owe me. Love K, xoxo_.”

Damon and Alaric look at each other for a long moment. “I guess that’s her way of saying ‘I know where you live’. What do you think she wants?”

And Damon leans, silver eyes bright and quick, and molds his mouth to Alaric’s, kissing him hard. “I don’t care what she wants,” he promises, and Alaric kisses him back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't get a chapter out last week, guys. I think I really need to say that from now on I'll be publishing most Sundays instead of every Sunday - I don't want to either publish stuff I'm not happy with or let this start to feel like a chore, and I am trying to focus on my original fiction more than I have been.  
> Plus, the chapters keep wanting to be looong, the bastards.  
> Thanks for your continued support - I will catch up on unanswered reviews this week, I promise!  
> ~PBK~  
> PS are we friends on twitter? WE'RE NOT? Oh no! I am @PleaseBeKidding.


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